Hot Coffee
by Tamoline
Summary: Modern day AU. Working in a coffee shop can be more than little insane, especially when you need to the money to make ends meet, you have problems standing up for yourself and your boss has an ongoing feud with one of the regular customers. Really, the last thing you need is to actually start *liking* the customer in question.
1. Chapter 1

I smile as I hand the cardboard cup to the waiting customer. I've been practicing that smile, dutifully staring at myself in the mirror until it looks...

("...a *little* less like a rictus of terror, Stark; come on, come on, the customers don't bite. Mostly.")

Bright. Cheerful. Professional.

"One extra-large double-shot mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles," I say. The customer mutters something that could be 'thanks', practically snatching the syrupy confection - more sugar than coffee - out of my hand as she clacks away on five-inch heels, strides shortened by the tightly-fitted pencil skirt she's wearing.

Let's see. Grey skirt with matching jacket. Cream blouse, unbuttoned enough to show just a hint of cleavage, but not so much as to be unprofessional. Discreet jewellery, expertly applied make-up. And, of course, the shoes. Clearly business battle-dress. No challenge there.

Okay, what about the rest of it?

Nicotine stains on her fingers. Pale skin. A tremor to her hand, making her clumsy when she grabbed for the coffee. Eyes a little puffy and bloodshot behind the dark glasses she didn't take off when she came through the door. Attention a million miles away from here and now, and whatever she's thinking about, it's not making her happy.

I think that's enough to work with.

"Daydreaming, Sansa?"

The voice breaks into my thoughts, making me jump a little and spin round. I relax a little when I see it's just Shae. She's leaning against the counter as she neatly folds a stack of tea-towels, smiling fondly at me.

I smile back at her, genuinely this time. Shae was a real lifesaver when I started here at Hot Coffee. She really took me under her wing. I swear she must have stopped me from making at least a hundred stupid mistakes. And that was just in the first week.

"Just thinking," I say softly.

Shae's smile turns mischievous.

"Playing your game again?"

I duck my head a little, vainly trying to hide the sudden flush of embarrassment that's undoubtedly staining my cheeks.

"Maybe," I admit. (I hope she doesn't think badly of me.)

Shae chuckles. It's not a malicious sound, but I feel my shoulders tense instinctively for a moment before I force myself to relax, to stand up straight and meet her gaze.

("You're such a little mouse, Sansa. When you hunch over like that, it looks like you're about to hibernate.")

"You don't need to be embarrassed about it," Shae says, and there's a look in her eyes, like she knows exactly what was going through my head. I shrug a little awkwardly and she lays a hand on my arm in wordless comfort. It... helps. (We're still friends!) Apparently satisfied that I'm not about to melt into a small puddle of shame at her feet, she goes back to folding tea-towels. "So, what's her story?"

That's my game. I like to make up stories about people. Who they are, what they're doing, where they're going. Maybe it is a little childish for an eighteen year-old girl - woman - but I don't care. It's fun.

And, anyway, my Psychology of Aging lecturer says some studies have suggested that 'maintaining an active imagination throughout one's life can help to stave off dementia and loss of memory in old age.'

So there.

I consider my observations, piecing them together to form a narrative. And then I immediately second-guess myself, toning down some of the weirder elements to make it - and me - seem a little less strange. (It isn't nearly as interesting, of course, but I guess you can't have everything.)

"She works in advertising. Her team is putting together a huge, important bid. It's make or break for her company, which is struggling financially. But the other party moved up the presentation at short notice, so she's been pulling all-nighters to get it done. She's practically mainlining coffee at the moment, and she's started smoking again. She tells herself she'll quit when this is over, but she knows she'll only start again the next time she's under that kind of stress." I pause for breath, giving Shae a small smile. "How's that?"

She makes a noncommittal noise. "It's okay, I suppose," she drawls. Her faint accent lends the words a touch of the exotic. (I love listening to her speak.)

"Just okay?"

She shrugs gracefully. (I've never met anyone who shrugged gracefully before. But she does everything gracefully. Even fold tea-towels. I wonder if that's something she could teach me, perhaps. I'd love to be that graceful.)

"It's a little... ordinary... isn't it? You can do better than ordinary."

That sounds like a challenge.

Suddenly, all traces of self-consciousness disappear as if they never even existed. (Oh, if only.)

Alright, fine. Let's try the original version.

"How about this, then? She does work in advertising, but that's not relevant to this story. She took a new lover recently, and she's been spending a lot of time with him. A lot of late nights. She thinks that's why she feels so tired all the time lately, but that's not it."

"No?"

"No. It's also not the reason why she's taken up smoking again; why her nicotine cravings have come back with a vengeance after having quit years ago. But those things are connected."

"Ah, a mystery," Shae murmurs. "Now you have my attention."

"Her new lover is a vampire. He's been feeding on her, and more. Those cravings she's feeling, they're not for nicotine." I make my voice deep and ominous. (I feel a pang as I realise I'm inadvertently imitating my father.) "And she's just starting to realise something's wrong..." I let those words hang for a moment, then raise my eyebrows. "How do you like that version?"

"Better, much better," she says. "Although I do hope her lover doesn't sparkle in sunlight."

"No, of course not," I hasten to reassure her. (Even if, in the privacy of my own mind, I don't think that would be so terrible.) "I was thinking old school, like Rice or Brite or Hamilton."

Shae sighs, lifting her eyes heavenward. "Sometimes I forget how young you are," she murmurs. She makes it sound kind, fond even. Not like a criticism. That goes some way towards heading off my sudden flare of defensiveness.

Even so.

"You're not that much older than I am," I can't help retorting.

She's, what? Early twenties? Mid-twenties at the most. Not that she'll ever tell me her exact age. Or anything much about her past. It's frustrating, but I kind of like the fact that she has an air of mystery about her. It's romantic.

And it means I'm free to make up my own stories about who she really is and where she comes from.

Maybe she's a witch. Maybe she met a faerie prince under the pale moonlight, and the two of them fell hopelessly in love. But maybe he was sworn to marry another, and so his cruel father laid a terrible curse upon Shae. Now, she's doomed to live a life without magic. A life without her love. A life of endless drudgery, where she has only fleeting, broken memories of the wonders she used to know. Until the curse is broken...

(Alright, I admit it. I love tales of the supernatural. And I'm also a bit of a sucker for gothic romance. Anything that combines the two is pretty much catnip to me.)

Putting the stack of tea-towels to one side, Shae leans on the counter-top next to me, studying me thoughtfully. "You know, you should write down some of your stories. You could post them online for people to read."

I'm already shaking my head. I don't even have to think about it.

"Oh, they're just silly things. Childish, really. I'm sure no one would actually read them."

"I would read them."

I start to duck my head again, then consciously make myself stop. (School - and everyone there - might be behind me now, but some habits are hard to break. No matter how hard I try.)

"Maybe make them a little less florid, though."

And I'm back to blushing uncomfortably.

"Don't you two have work to do?"

I jump half out of my skin, of course. Shae spins around quickly, but her natural grace makes her look like a ballerina. I probably just look like a shocked rabbit.

Asha emerges from the storeroom, glowering at the pair of us like she's just caught us with our hands in the till. She's casually hefting a sack of coffee beans on one shoulder, moving like it barely weighs a thing. (It always surprises me how strong she is, given her size. Not that she's petite or anything. I mean, she's shorter than I am, but so are a lot of people, Shae included. But she's only a little broader-framed than me. Not exactly built like a brick... outhouse.)

She sets the sack down on the counter and starts refilling the grinder with fresh beans, the aroma of them wafting deliciously through the air. I love that smell. Honestly, it's one of the reasons I applied for this job in the first place. Not the main reason, or even in the top three, but it was definitely on the list. (The top three reasons were, of course: money, money and money. A student loan only stretches so far and, much though she'd dearly love to, Mother isn't really in a position to help me out.)

I scurry over to help Asha fill the grinder, oddly pleased when she gives a wordless grunt of approval. (She can be very expressive sometimes, even without needing to resort using to actual words.)

Shae stays exactly where she is, lounging against the counter like she owns the place. Like she hasn't a care in the world. I can't help but be impressed by her bravery, even though my stomach twists a little with worry for her. I'm not ashamed to admit that Asha scares me a little. And then there's the fact that she's the assistant manager here.

I know Shae needs this job - she's confided in me that much, at least - so why does she take every opportunity she can to try to provoke Asha?

Take now, for example. That look she's giving Asha is nothing short of insouciant.

"There are no customers," Shae points out. "The morning rush is over and the students are either still in bed or at lectures."

Asha snorts, clearly less than impressed with Shae and her attitude. That's pretty normal for her, though. She doesn't seem to think much of anyone or anything, me included.

"Better not let the boss catch you lazing around," she says acidly. "He'd probably threaten you with a spanking."

I can't help a shudder. Mr Baelish seems nice enough, and he's certainly very friendly, but, well, he can be a little... unsettling. And that does sound like something he'd say, smiling that little smile of his to show that it's all a joke, that it's all in good fun.

Except it's not really all that funny.

Anyway, he's not here today. He's off at some management meeting, leaving Asha in charge. Which isn't really any different to when he is around, I suppose.

Shae snorts. "He could try," she says, and there's a dangerous edge to her voice that she rarely allows herself to express. "I think that he would regret the attempt."

Much to my surprise, Asha grins, the expression fierce, maybe even predatory. "I'd almost like to see that," she says, cheerfully. "But I probably shouldn't be encouraging insubordination among the crew."

Shae rolls her eyes. "Aye-aye, *Captain*," she says, infusing the title with a truly impressive amount of sarcasm. She straightens and grabs a cloth from its hook. "I will wipe down the already-clean tables." And she flounces off to do just that.

She does manage quite an impressive flounce when she puts her mind to it.

Asha is scowling after her, the grin wiped away, her face now looking like the sky before a storm.

"Um," I say, tentatively, struggling not to flinch when she turns her hawklike gaze on me. "How's the ship coming along?" I blurt out.

She stares at me for a long moment while I quail inside a little, but then her face relaxes from its scowl and she nods. Enthusiasm animates her features as she seals the sack of beans and stows it carefully away. We start restocking the syrups, sprinkles and marshmallows.

"We're making good progress," she says. "We were having some problems with the timbering, but that turned out to be because we'd been sent a duff batch of wood. But I ripped the supplier a new arsehole and he replaced it free of charge." She sniffs disparagingly. "As well he should. He's lucky I didn't report him to Trading Standards."

I nod agreeably. It seems appropriate at this juncture.

"Of course," she continues. "If it was up to me, we'd cut and treat our own wood, but apparently there are laws against just grabbing an axe and chopping down an oak tree or two. Or three. Anyway, we're going to..."

Her words wash over me, sprinkled with technical jargon I don't have a hope of understanding. But I understand enough to get the gist of it, and I'm quite impressed. It takes a certain amount of determination to build a Viking longship from scratch, using as close to the original materials and techniques as possible. I'm almost as impressed by the fact that she's managed to assemble a motley group of people who not only share her ambition, but are willing to travel down to the coast with her one weekend in four to work on making it happen.

Although, I guess being a member of the Living History society probably made it easier to find like-minded souls.

"...hoping to have the Hafgufa sea-worthy by the summer after next," she finishes, proudly.

"The Hafgufa?" I repeat, trying to pronounce it the way she did. It sounds a little like I'm clearing phlegm from my throat.

"Big sea monster. Think Kraken."

I can practically hear the capital letter.

"Oh." I consider that a moment as we return the excess stock to the storeroom. "It's a good name."

"*I* think so."

"Standing around chatting, Asha? Don't you have work to do?"

Shae's amusement is almost palpable as she leans against the doorframe, raising one eyebrow. Asha turns on her with a face like thunder. I search in vain for something to say, for a way to calm the situation down before the hostility between them boils over, automatically taking a step back.

(...the tension in the air, like a promise of violence, of ugliness to come...)

I feel my gut tighten, making me want to hunch in on myself, to wrap my arms around my middle and curl up in a little ball.

I... don't deal well with confrontation, even when I'm not directly involved.

Why oh why can't people just get along?

I see Shae glance over at me as I freeze, torn between conflicting urges to intervene and to flee far away from here. Something flickers across her face, there and gone far too quickly for me to figure out what it means. Then she grits her teeth and sighs, conspicuously looking at her watch.

"It's time for my break, anyway," she says. "I'm sure the two of you can hold the fort without me for a few minutes."

Asha looks briefly puzzled, then nods, guardedly. "Don't take too long," she says.

Shae rolls her eyes. "I won't, don't worry." She takes off her apron and hangs it on its peg, and retrieves her handbag from the storeroom. (It does double duty as a place for us to stash our things while we're working.) "Do you want anything from the shops?"

She's looking at me, but Asha answers before my throat unlocks enough for me to speak.

"No. Thank you."

"Sansa?" Shae prompts.

"No, I'm fine thanks," I say, managing to speak more or less normally.

"Then I'll see you soon." Giving me a smile and a wave - and ignoring Asha completely - she heads out of the shop.

Asha turns to me, scowling, and I brace myself for I don't know what, but then, as if in answer to all my prayers, I hear the ping that signals the coffee shop door opening.

A customer?

Asha glances over towards the door, then immediately ducks back into the storeroom.

"Great," she mutters quietly; viciously. "Just what this day needed. A visit from the bloody Dragon." I start to ask what she means, but my question turns into a squeak as she grabs my arm and unceremoniously propels out of the storeroom. "You can deal with her," she whispers brusquely. "I don't have the energy or the patience for her bullshit right now, and I definitely don't want to have to explain to upper management why I felt the need to bodily throw a customer out of the shop."

"But-"

"You'll be fine," she says, decisively. Unfortunately, she then spoils the effect by adding: "Good luck."

The next thing I know, I'm standing out there on my own and Asha is nowhere to be seen.

What on earth is *wrong* with her?

Still, there's no time to worry about that now. I have a customer to deal with. Putting on my smile like a mask, I swipe my access card to log into the till and launch into my little rote greeting.

"Good afternoon and welcome to Hot Coffee. What can I get for you today?"

I look up, and find myself staring into the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Much brighter than the muddy blue-grey I see every time I look in the mirror. They seem like they should sparkle in the light, like gemstones, and I'm immediately struck by a wave of raw envy.

As well as inspiration for my inner writer.

When I can tear myself away from her eyes, I'm somehow unsurprised to realise that the rest of her is just as perfect. Her skin is tanned and smooth, with no hint of a spot or blemish on her face, and her lips are full and pink. One of her dark eyebrows - both neatly shaped - arches inquisitively beneath her incongruously blonde fall of hair.

She's beautiful.

(Unlike me.)

Belatedly, I realise that she's speaking and, flushing, I make myself focus.

(Even her voice is beautiful. Commanding and clear, practically brimming with confidence.)

(I'm so very, very jealous.)

"You're new," she states, sounding for all the world like a queen making a pronouncement.

"Sorry," I say instinctively, then wish with all my heart that I could bite the word back. But I can't, so I just continue gamely onwards. "I mean, I suppose so. I'm the newest member of staff here, anyway. But I've been working here for about four weeks now."

I realise that I'm starting to babble and make myself stop. I take a deep, calming breath.

"Hmm," the customer says, studying me. I can't help feeling uncomfortably like she can see right through me, right to the scared little girl hiding behind my adult facade. I have to fight not to fidget under her gaze. "Your name is..." Her eyes flick down to my name badge. "Sansa?"

"Sansa Stark," I confirm, feeling like I should curtsey or something. "And you are...?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. Pleased to meet you."

Such an unusual name. Lovely, though. (Like her.) I wonder where it's from.

"Pleased to meet you, too," I echo faintly. "Are... Are you a regular customer here?"

"I am." She nods, and then frowns. "Although, I have occasionally been less than satisfied with the coffee here recently." Her gaze sharpens, and even though I'm taller than she is, I suddenly feel like I'm about an inch high. "Perhaps you'll do better."

"I can certainly try!" I'm aiming for cheerful and professional. I think I hit somewhere south of manic. Oh well. "What would you like?"

"I'd like a double-shot espresso macchiato, please." Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. But she's not finished yet. "Made with one shot of hot milk, not foam, and poured Italian style, not American. With one shot of Belgian dark chocolate syrup and two of peppermint."

Oh. That's... Oh.

It's all starting to make sense.

"Just bear with me a moment..." I fumble my way around the till, figuring out the right combination of buttons more by guesswork than anything else. At least, I assume it's the right combination. Certainly, the customer - Daenerys - doesn't seem to bat an eye when I repeat the total. She hands over a loyalty card with her money, so I guess she really is a regular.

(I wonder why I've never seen her before. I certainly wouldn't have forgotten her.)

Right. Now for the hard part.

"I'll just get started on your drink. You can take a seat if you want, and I'll bring it over when I'm done."

"That's alright, I'm happy to wait. Besides, this way I get to see if you do it right."

No pressure, then.

I take a moment to go through the process in my mind, and then retrieve everything I'm going to need, laying it out neatly on the counter.

Okay, I can do this. I can. Except... What does 'Italian style' mean? Should I try to guess? Or should I ask her? I waver for a moment or two, then decide to bite the bullet.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"I haven't made this drink before, and I want to be sure I get it right, so could you please tell me: how do I pour it Italian style?"

She frowns for a moment, eyes flickering towards the storeroom, before she looks back at me, her expression turning into a smile. I find myself standing up a little straighter, basking in its glow.

"It means that you pour the milk into the espresso, rather than the other way around. Everything else is as it sounds, but please ask if you're not certain about anything else. I'm a firm believer in asking questions."

"I will." Her smile is oddly infectious. I wonder if I look as dazed as I feel. "Thank you."

Right. Here we go. Start the milk heating. Dispense and tamp the espresso grounds. Lock the head in place on the machine and start the drip. Pour the syrups into the cup. Wait for the espresso. Measure and pour the shots. Check the milk temperature. When it's ready, measure and pour. Remember at the last minute not to add the foam. Add the final flourish: an abstract design on the surface drawn using the tiniest dribble of chocolate syrup.

And... done.

"One double-shot espresso macchiato, made with hot milk, poured Italian style, with Belgian dark chocolate and peppermint syrup. I hope it's to your liking."

"Thank you." She takes a sip. I hold my breath as she savours it for a moment or two, looking thoughtful. Please let her like it. Please let her- "Well done!" she says, beaming. "Very good for a first attempt. I see I'll have to make sure to have you serve me in future."

"I'll be here!" I say, wincing internally at how much of a ninny I sound.

Daenerys nods at me and ensconces herself at one of the tables, pulling out a laptop and a couple of thick books. I try not to watch her too obviously as I clear up the work area, pretty much carrying out the task on auto-pilot. In almost no time at all, she seems to lose herself in whatever she's working on. I wonder what that is...

"Well, fuck me sideways." Asha's voice comes from behind me, her tone ripe with disbelief. Her Orcadian accent is stronger than usual, but I don't think she'd thank me for pointing it out, so I don't. I turn to face her and find that she's looking at me like I've grown a second head. "That's something I never thought I'd see. Someone's finally soothed the savage beast." Her eyes narrow and she looks me up and down appraisingly. "You've been holding out on us, Stark. Seems you've got hidden talents."

I shrug helplessly, not really knowing what to say. Daenerys really doesn't seem very dragon-like. A little intimidating at first, perhaps, but she seems friendly enough. So, why on earth is Asha reacting the way she is?

There has to be a story there.

And I'm going to find out what it is.


	2. Chapter 2

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to wait a while before I have the chance to try to satisfy my curiosity. I don't really want to ask Asha directly, and by the time Shae returns customers are starting to trickle and then flood in. The lunchtime rush seems to have commenced a little sooner than expected, and we're pretty much run off our feet.

I recognise some of the customers as regulars, but we also seem to have acquired a small gaggle of tourists. From the snatches of conversation I overhear, the tourists are mostly Americans, and are thrilled beyond belief that they're actually right in the middle of 'Robin Hood Country'. They're currently between sights at the moment and eager for caffeine and a sit down, not necessarily in that order. They descend upon the low sofas in the corner as if they've found paradise itself, sinking into the soft cushions with weary sighs and muttered complaints about 'deadly hills'.

(I have to suppress a smile at that. Nottingham might have the odd mild slope or two, but compared to my native Sheffield it's practically as flat as a pancake. If they want to see real hills, they should try some of the walking tours near Winterfell sometime.)

"Is that smile for me?"

Startled out of my thoughts, I look up into a pair of dancing brown eyes, into white teeth standing out against olive skin as the customer leans against the counter, grinning widely at me.

"Oh, um, hi Reza." My cheeks heat, either at being caught wool-gathering, or because he's flustered me again. "I haven't started your drink yet." I finish the one I'm currently making, and place it on the counter. "Large latte for Natasha," I call out. Natasha snags her drink, nodding at me in thanks as she continues to talk animatedly on her phone.

(In my head, Natasha - another one of our regulars - used to be a spy, first for the Russian government and then freelance, before a rogue werewolf pack killed the rest of her team during a job gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now, she hunts monsters, both for revenge and because she feels it needs to be done.)

"Take your time," Reza says cheerfully. "I'm not in a hurry." I give him a small smile, but don't say anything. I never know what to say to him. Not that it ever seems to deter him from talking to me. "I didn't expect to see you here today," he says, after a moment or two. "Don't you usually have lectures on Tuesdays?"

"Labs," I say. "But my group finished our experiment a week early."

Well, technically we finished on time. The course tutor allowed an extra week, 'just in case'. In theory, I could be using this time to get a head start on the write-up. Which I was totally going to do, in fact, but then Asha called me.

"So you decided to spend an extra day working here?" He shakes his head, laughing a little. "Man, you must really love this place. If I had an unexpected day off, the last thing I'd do is spend it working."

"Ygritte called in sick," I say, my voice sounding a little more defensive than I'd like. "Asha asked me to cover her shift."

I do feel a little guilty about working when I should be *working*, but, well, I do need the money. And I brought my laptop with me, so in theory I can work on my report during the quiet periods. In theory.

"Ygritte was at a music festival this weekend, wasn't she?" he asks, knowingly.

"Yes," I say, looking around to see if Asha is within earshot. Luckily she isn't. Not that she doesn't already strongly suspect that Ygritte's 'illness' is a combination of 'sleep deprived and extremely hung over,' but there's no point in reminding her.

And I for one have no intention of telling her that Ygritte hasn't even made it back to Nottingham yet.

"So," I say brightly, searching for a way to change the subject before I say something I shouldn't. "You had an archery competition this weekend, didn't you?"

He nods, starting to say something, but I interrupt him before he can actually speak.

"Hold on a moment, sorry," I say, setting another completed drink on the counter. "Medium mocha for Makeda," I call out.

The woman who collects it isn't a regular, I think, but she looks vaguely familiar. I think I might have seen her in a couple of my lectures.

"Thank you," she says. I don't think she recognises me.

"You're welcome." I start on Reza's coffee now, glancing up at him. "Sorry about that. How did the competition go?"

"Great, thanks for asking." His smile broadens. "We came in second overall. The Brummies won, but it was a close thing. And they did have the home range advantage." He shrugs. "We had some pretty respectable scores, though." He looks down modestly, the effect only slightly spoiled when he looks up again eagerly at me, sneaking a glance through eyelashes that I swear are longer than mine. "I placed first in the men's category."

"Well done!" I say.

"Thank you." If his smile got any brighter, I might need sunglasses. He always seems so cheerful. "You know, we're hosting a competition at Nottingham this weekend. One o' clock Saturday afternoon, in the sports centre. Just a friendly, but still. You could come and watch, if you want. Cheer the home team."

"Maybe I will," I say noncommittally. It could be fun, I guess. Maybe. If I'm not busy doing coursework, or pulling a shift here. "Here's your coffee."

"Cheers." He accepts the cardboard cup and taking a sip. "Tastes good."

"Glad you like it." I smile at him and start on the next order, expecting him to bid me goodbye and head on out. He did order his coffee 'to go,' after all. But he doesn't show any particular inclination to leave.

"Have you ever thought about giving archery a go?"

I just about manage not to pull a face.

"Not really. I don't think it's for me." Which is an understatement and a half, really.

"How do you know unless you try?" He looks me up and down, and I have to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "I bet you could draw a twenty-eight pound bow, although you might want to start with a twenty-six, just to get the hang of it."

"Um, I don't think..."

"There are quite a few newbies at the moment, so it's actually a pretty good time to start. And everyone's really friendly. We usually hang out a bit after practice, and we have semi-regular movie nights. Generally we watch something with lots of crap archery so we can take the piss out of it." He winces. "Okay, that sounds really geeky. But it's fun. Really. And now I'm just making a fool of myself, aren't I?" He grins ruefully, and I can't help grinning back at him.

"You're doing fine. I'm just... I don't think I'd make a very good archer." I sigh, feeling my grin wilt around the edges. "I'm not very strong."

"That's what the lighter bows are for," he says, like that solves everything. "Look, I realise I'm doing a crappy job of selling it, but archery is fun. I certainly enjoy it, which I guess you've probably realised by the way I jabber on and on about it given half a chance. How do you know you don't like it, unless you give it a try?"

"Well..." No, I'm sure. Arya would jump at the chance of course, but I am most definitely not my sister.

"If you do give it a go and still don't like it, well, at least then you'll know for certain," he continues earnestly. "And all you'll have lost is time. But you never know, you might gain a new hobby."

And the opportunity to humiliate myself in new and mortifying ways in front of a group of strangers trying out something I really am ninety-nine point nine per cent certain I'll not only hate but also utterly suck at. No, I'm still not seeing the benefit.

So why can't I just *say* that?

But "I don't know..." is what actually comes out of my mouth.

"If you try it and don't like it, I promise I'll stop bothering you about it. Scout's honour." He holds up his free hand in a gesture that I assume is supposed to be a scout's salute.

"I... think a scout's salute is supposed to use three fingers, not two," I say softly. As well as keep the fingers together. He's actually making a victory sign.

"Oh." He lets his hand drop to his side. "Well, I was never actually a very good boy scout. I was only a member for about a week." He smiles self-deprecatingly, his eyes twinkling so I can't help but return his smile.

I can't quite figure Reza out. Sometimes he seems so smooth, so confident, that I can't help wondering why he even talks to me. Other times he's, well, like this. (Like me. Awkward and flustered) Maybe that's why I keep changing my mind about his story. Now I'm thinking... He was stolen away by the Fae as a child. He lived in one of their Courts for a while, but recently managed to escape and make his way back to the mortal realm. Except he's been changed by his time with the Fae, and now he's finding it hard to adjust...

"So? Have I persuaded you? Are you going to come along to a practice session?"

I start guiltily, hoping he didn't notice that my attention was wandering. Maybe he thinks I was just considering his words.

"Umm..." No. Just say it. It's easy: one tiny little word. No. Be polite, yet firm. You can do it. He won't be offended. (He won't be angry.) I think. No. Just like that. Easy-peasy. "Okay."

"You will?" Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think he looks a little... surprised? "Great! That's... great. So, tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow." I shrug apologetically. "Working here, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Well, next week then. It'll be fun, you'll see."

I could say I'm busy then, or that I'm working; either of which could quite well be true, if I want it to be. But, with a feeling of foreboding congealing in my chest, I already know how this is going to be.

"Sure."

"Great! That's probably for the best anyway. I can introduce you to the guys after the meet this weekend."

Wonderful. So, instead of humiliating myself in front of complete strangers, I'll be humiliating myself in front of people I've been vaguely introduced to once.

I suppose it doesn't make that much difference in the grand scheme of things.

"Sounds good," I say distantly, even though it sounds like anything but. Terrifying might be a more apt word, but I doubt it's one that Reza wants to hear.

I try and push away the panic fluttering around the edges of my mind, focusing on the task at hand. It's actually kind of soothing. Hectic, certainly, but once I settle into the rhythm of it there's something almost Zen about steadily working my way through the list of orders.

Even if it doesn't actually seem to shrink.

"Anyway," Reza says. "You're really busy, and I need to get going. I guess I'll see you on Saturday, if not before." He flashes a brilliant smile over his shoulder as he turns and walks away. "Bye, Sansa. It was nice talking with you."

"Bye," I say, a little distractedly.

So, it looks like I'm going to try archery.

Yay.

* * *

In between making drink after drink after drink, I manage to steal the occasional glance over at Daenerys, hoping for clues that will let me solve the mystery of Asha's uncharacteristic behaviour. She doesn't so much as lift her head from her work, busily typing away on her laptop and occasionally consulting one of the weighty tomes stacked next to it. I'm sure now that those are textbooks, although I can't decipher the titles from here. That means she must be a student, like me. I wonder what year she's in? I strongly doubt she's a fellow fresher.

There's a tiny frown between her eyebrows; eyebrows so much darker than her hair. It's clear now that she's not a natural blonde.

(Actually, it's... not the best dye job I've ever seen, to be honest. The colour's a little uneven, and her roots are showing pretty badly. I'm guessing she did it herself and hasn't bothered to maintain it. Even so, she somehow manages to make it work for her.)

(So very envious.)

"Sansa, are you alright?"

Shae's voice breaks through my reverie, and I give myself a mental shake, glancing over at her before continuing with the task at hand. Two white Americanos, one caramel latte, one double-shot Mocha without whipped cream, one peppermint hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, and one Earl Grey tea. (Hot, I mentally append, hearing the word in the inimitable tones of Sir Patrick Stewart.)

"Yes, fine, thanks. Why?"

"You seem a little distracted."

"I'm just concentrating." Well, thinking up a story. One involving dragons and...

I'll get to the rest later.

"Hmm." She sounds sceptical, but she leaves me to it.

Time passes in a blur of taking orders, making drinks and cleaning tables. I barely have time to catch my breath, let alone work on my lab write-up. But it's not so bad, and the tourists leave pretty good tips. This actually presents a bit of a problem - apparently there isn't an official policy regarding that kind of thing. Shae wants to split it between the two of us, or 'the people who were actually working' as she puts it. Asha disagrees, vociferously. I just try and keep out of it. In the end, Asha makes the executive decision that the money will be donated to charity. Which sets off the next round of arguments.

Asha wants the Lifeboat Fund, Shae votes for Shelter and, when pressed about who I'm siding with, I tentatively suggest the NSPCC. Eventually, Shae proposes a round of rock, paper, scissors, and Asha agrees with bad grace. Especially when Shae wins. Asha says she'll talk to Mr Baelish about having a permanent charity jar in future. (Well, by 'talk to' I think she means she'll suggest it, and he'll agree if he knows what's good for him.) We can take turns picking the charity, perhaps on a weekly basis.

Eventually, the tourists bustle off, talking excitedly about an upcoming underground cave tour, and the only remaining customers are a handful of students, plus a shopper or two. And Daenerys. As my gaze flicks her way again, she gets to her feet and closes the lid of her laptop. Gathering up her cup and saucer, she strides purposefully over to the counter, where she sets them down and nods at Shae.

"Good afternoon," she says.

"Afternoon, Daenerys," Shae replies. She smiles professionally. "What'll it be this time?"

I'm almost surprised she doesn't just ask if Daenerys wants her usual.

"I'll have a chai latte with a single shot of espresso and a dash of cinnamon syrup, made with scalded milk, not steamed, poured Italian style and topped with a thin layer of foam, please."

Oh. That would be why.

Shae doesn't say anything as she rings up the order, but I see the way her eyes flick up slightly, as if she's about to roll her eyes but stops herself.

"Your drink will be ready shortly," she says, handing Daenerys back her loyalty card, change and receipt.

I give the table I'm cleaning one last swipe with the cloth and move on to the next one, only to stop in my tracks when Daenerys says:

"I'd like Sansa to make it, please." I instinctively turn around and find myself looking into her eyes again. "If that's alright?" she asks, smiling. I find myself smiling back.

"That's fine," I say.

Shae gives me a funny look as I head around the counter, but she moves out of my way. I've never heard of anyone asking for an espresso shot in chai before, but each to their own. I can see why Asha and Shae would dread her orders but, strangely, I find myself enjoying the challenge of it.

(Okay, maybe I am a little nervous. But only a little.)

I take it slowly, going over each step of the process in my head before I perform it. I wouldn't want to do this when the place is packed, but now, when I don't have to rush, it's really not too bad.

As before, I sketch an abstract design on the surface as a final flourish, handing the drink over with a smile.

"Enjoy!" I say.

Daenerys takes an evaluating sip. I find myself leaning forward a little, eager to hear her verdict.

"It's good," she says, smiling, and I'm surprised at how relieved I feel. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I reply automatically. She nods companionably at me and returns to her table, losing herself in her work once more.

Feeling oddly happy, I return to my cleaning.

* * *

When Daenerys leaves - with a smile and a wave - Shae turns to me with raised eyebrows.

"So, you've managed to impress the Dragon," she says.

I shrug, fighting back the urge to apologise.

"She didn't seem that bad," I say softly.

Shae snorts. "You've obviously never seen how sarcastic she can be."

"Or seen her lose her temper," Asha breaks in, and I almost choke on the idea of Asha accusing someone else of having a temper. And *Shae*, of all people, having a problem with sarcasm? (Not that I'm criticising her. I mean, I like her snarky little comments. They're funny. And they're never directed at me.)

"She thinks she's so much better than everyone else," Shae mutters, scowling a little.

"She always thinks she's right."

"She's always pushing some cause or another, and she goes on and on and on and on and *on* about it until you agree with her just so she'll shut the hell up."

"And she's a LARPer!"

I stare at Asha, wondering if I heard her correctly.

"What's a LARPer?" I ask, tentatively.

"A live-action roleplayer." She pulls a disgusted face, like the phrase leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "They run around the lake wearing fake armour, waving fake weapons around, pretending to slay fake dragons and shit."

I frown. "So, LARPing isn't the same as re-enactment?"

I know as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I've said the wrong thing. (As usual.) Behind Asha, Shae shakes her head and face-palms exaggeratedly. Asha just stares at me for what feels like the longest moment of my life. She takes a step towards me, and I try not to flinch.

"They're not the same thing at *all*," she practically growls. "We use metal weapons for a start; none of that foam or latex crap. We wear actual chain mail, not knitted vests spray-painted silver. And we fight *realistically*, we don't flail and flounce around like we're country dancing!"

"Okay," I say, placatingly. "They're completely different things. I get that now, I'm sorry."

"And we *re-enact* famous battles from British history. We put a lot of time and effort into making sure everything is as historically accurate as possible. We learn authentic crafting methods to make our clothes and props and things. We aim for *realism*. They just make shit up! Magic and dragons and whatever the hell they feel like. It's just a glorified game of let's pretend! And not even *that* glorified."

She winds down her little rant, glaring at me like she's expecting me to say something.

"I see," I offer. It's all I can think of, but it seems to be enough. She snorts again, but her shoulders relax, and some of the wind seems to leave her sails. (For some reason, I can't stop myself lapsing into nautical metaphors around her.)

"Good," she mutters. "I'm going to change the filters on the machine. You two should find something useful to do." With one last glower, she stomps off back into the storeroom.

I start collecting used crockery to stack in the dishwasher. Shae tackles the cleaning and restocking. Aside from the sounds of us working, silence reigns for a little while. I catch Shae giving me sidelong glances every now and then, but she doesn't say anything. For some reason, I find myself feeling faintly... guilty.

It's a relief when she comes over and gives me a small smile.

"Asha feels strongly about the difference between metal and rubber weaponry," she says softly, her eyes twinkling.

"I kind of got that impression."

She leans in close. "You know," she says, confidingly. "Asha and Daenerys are both members of the university debating society. I understand that they have crossed wits with each other a number of times."

I nod slowly. I guess that explains a few things. Not everything, though.

"So, why don't *you* like her?"

She doesn't answer me right away, and I think maybe she isn't going to, but then she sighs.

"It's not that I don't like her," she says. "She can even be quite charming when she wants to be. It's just... I've met people like her before. They always have such grand ideas, and they're absolutely convinced that their way is the right way, the only way. They won't listen to anyone who doesn't just nod their head and agree. And when they move on to their next crusade, it's the people they've dragged along in their wake that have to pick up the pieces." She shrugs. "As I said: I know the type, and I don't have much tolerance for them. It isn't personal."

I don't really know what to say to that (although I do file that information away for later consideration), so I ask another question.

"Do you know what she's studying?"

"Law."

I think about that a moment, turning the image that conjures over in my mind. Yes, I can totally see Daenerys in a courtroom, passionately arguing her case, eyes flashing with conviction. I may not know her, not really, but I want to believe that she'd be good at it.

"You know," Shae continues. "Ygritte and I have a running joke that, somewhere down the line, Asha and Deanery's are bound to end up on opposite sides of a class-action lawsuit."

I can see that too.

Although I can't help picturing it as some kind of literal fight. Were-shark versus, let me see... Vampire? Yes, vampire. Day-walker vampire. Asha's the were-shark, of course. She'd be in her land form, huge and muscled, with tough hide and several rows of vicious teeth. Daenerys would be slender and pale, but impossibly agile and fast. She'd be wielding a sword. No, two swords, one made of steel and one of silver.

Why are they fighting? Umm... Not sure yet. Territory? A generations-long feud? Just because?

I'll think of something.

I'm also not sure yet how the dragons fit into things, but give me time.

(I can't help thinking that Asha would actually be flattered if I told her that, in a world of dark magics and supernatural creatures, she would totally be the leader of a vicious tribe of were-sharks. Asha Greyjoy: the terror of land and sea alike, raiding her enemies and rending their flesh with gleeful abandon. I can see it now...)

"Stark, are you just going to stare at that dishwasher, or are you actually going to turn it on?"

I jump guiltily.

"Sorry, sorry. I was just making sure it's full and that the rotors aren't blocked and... and..." My train of thought derails somewhere before the end of that sentence. "Stuff," I finish lamely.

She snorts. "You can daydream about sparkling vampires and pretty-boy werewolves on your own time. Focus on the task at hand."

"Okay, sorry."

Once! She caught me reading one of those books at the counter *one time*. That's all. And, not only did I get an earful from her at the time, but whenever I think she's finally let it go, she goes and brings it up again. I get it! She doesn't like the Twilight books. Not that she's ever *read* them (that she'll admit), but she objects on general principles. Something about them 'sanitising the old legends into bland Hollywood crap' and 'turning them into nothing more than a masturbation fantasy for teenaged girls.'

(Actually, she didn't use the words 'crap' and 'masturbation.' She used different words.)

The worst thing is, I think Shae agrees with her. Although maybe her reasons are different. (I can't help the way my stomach twists a little at the thought of Shae's disapproval, no matter how mild.)

My mutinous thoughts carry me through filling the detergent, salt and rinse aid dispensers, but the irritation is already starting to fade by the time I select and start the programme. What does it even matter if Asha doesn't approve of my taste in books? It's not like she ever approves of anything else about me.

I look for something else to do, taking the opportunity to check whether Asha's waiting to jump down my throat for standing around 'daydreaming'. Luckily, she seems to have disappeared into the back somewhere. I can hear her voice, so she's probably on the phone. Maybe she's checking in with Mr Baelish. (I wonder how his big meeting's going. I wonder if it's going to affect us at all.)

I notice that Shae is eyeing me speculatively.

"What?" I ask, feeling a little defensive.

"So, what story have you woven around the inimitable Miss Targaryen?" she asks.

I shrug awkwardly, straightening a stack of clean cups so that their handles all line up neatly.

"I haven't really had the chance to think of one," I temporise, not entirely truthfully. I'm feeling more than a little self-conscious.

She raises her eyebrows. "I'm sure you can come up with something..."

I pretend to think for a moment, and then clear my throat.

"A vampire warrior and would-be queen, a direct descendant of Dracula himself, on a quest to reclaim her throne and her territory from a vile usurper. The rest of her family were killed, but she was smuggled out by loyal servants, and sent away to a far-away court where she struggled to survive. That period of her life gave her a strong hatred of tyrants and bullies, so she makes a point of standing up for the disenfranchised and oppressed whenever she can. Even if that risks alienating potential allies." I shrug, smiling sheepishly. "That's all I have, sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I like it." She grins. "A vampire warrior queen, eh?"

I nod. "Yes."

"You know, the name 'Dracula' literally means 'son of the dragon' in English. So, in your story, Daenerys would be a daughter of the dragon." Shae's eyes twinkle. "Which is funny, given Asha's name for her."

"Huh. I didn't know that." But I am *so* going to use it in my story. And now I know where the dragons fit in.

"In any case," Shae says, matter-of-factly. "Her draconic, vampiric highness seems to have taken a liking to you, so I'm afraid you'll probably be stuck making her drinks from now on. Do you think you can handle that?"

I nod again, more firmly this time.

"Yes, I can handle that."

And, much to my surprise, I actually believe I can.

In fact, not only can I handle it, I think I might actually be looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hmmm." Daenerys frowns thoughtfully, sipping the coffee-syrup-cream concoction like a sommelier tasting some particularly rare and precious vintage. I try not to look like I'm waiting with bated breath. (Which I totally, pathetically am. Sometimes I'm such a nincompoop.) "Could do with being just a *touch* hotter, perhaps."

"I'm sorry," I burst out. "I guess I took too long making it. I can make you another one?"

I start grabbing utensils and syrups, clattering and clanking around like an elephant on roller-skates. ("...break everything, why don't you? You're so *clumsy*, Sansa.") She stops me with a gesture, smiling kindly like she isn't annoyed (angry) at the fact that I've messed this up. (I mess everything up.)

"No need to do that," she says, soothingly. "It's good, otherwise." A grin lights up her face, bringing a sparkle to her wonderful eyes. "I'll just drink it quickly." To illustrate, she takes a deep draught of it, sighing appreciatively.

"If you're sure...?"

My pulse slows back to normal, the panicky fluttering in my stomach settling down. (I need to be stronger than this. I thought I *was* doing better than this, at least for a while. I can't have a fit of the vapours every time a customer - or anyone else - is less than impressed with me. I'd spend my whole life curled up in the foetal position.)

"I'm sure. I wouldn't say so otherwise."

She says that like it's so obvious, like of course she says what she means and means what she says; why wouldn't she? Why wouldn't anyone? (I wish I lived in her world. Although it's the last place I would have expected to find a lawyer-in-training.)

I return her smile, feeling a little flustered.

"You're studying law, aren't you?" I blurt out.

Daenerys nods. "Just starting my second year." She's only a year older than me? But she seems so much more poised, more polished, more *confident*. I wonder what she was like a year ago. "Although I took a gap year in-between." Oh. Two years older, than. Her cheerful demeanour seems to falter a little, like a cloud passing over the face of the sun, the shine in her eyes dulling just a touch. "I..." Her hesitation is uncharacteristic. (It worries me, even though I barely know her.) "I spent some time travelling." There's a moment, a brief flicker of time, when I have the feeling that I could ask the question, and have it answered. Why does she look so sad? (What happened to her out there, wherever 'out there' was?) But then she takes a breath, the moment passes, and the clouds are gone as if they never even existed. "So, what about you? What are you studying?"

Redirect, change the focus to the other person. A tactic I know well. But if she doesn't want to talk about it, I'm certainly not going to pry. It's not like I don't have my own secrets, and she is still a near-stranger after all.

Although... Maybe that's about to change?

"Psychology and Cognitive Neuroscience," I say softly. "First year."

She raises her eyebrows. At first I think it's doubt (how could someone as pathetic as me be studying something like that?), but then I realise it's actually, startlingly, admiration.

"Challenging subjects," she says, approvingly. "Dual honours, too. I knew you were more than a pretty face and deft hands."

For a moment, I almost can't believe what I'm hearing, and then my face burns so hotly I'm sure I must be crimson right to the roots of my hair. I duck my head, covering my discombobulation by starting to clear up the counter, not sure what to say.

She thinks I'm pretty? And deft-handed? Not awkward and gangling and clumsy?

She's probably just being polite.

"Thank you," I say, a little belatedly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

"You don't have to thank me," she says, and I look up through the curtain of my hair, making myself meet her eyes with an expression that I hope at least approximates a smile.

"My mother taught me it was good manners to thank someone for saying something nice about you."

"You don't need to thank me for speaking the truth." She pauses, but I'm so tongue-tied I just can't get a word out. The moment stretches awkwardly, until she eventually takes pity on me and my obvious social gaucheness. (Not that I used to be this way. Quite the opposite, in fact. A regular social butterfly. But that was before... Before.) "What made you choose that degree?"

I shrug. "I'm..." I stop and clear my throat, forcing myself to stand up straight and meet her gaze like a normal person. "I've always been interested in learning how people think and learn. What makes them tick."

"I see. Are you thinking of going into therapy eventually? Or working in research?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Actually, it's more accurate to say that I keep changing my decision. Sometimes I think I just want to help people directly, by encouraging them come to terms with the things that make them the way they are. Other times, I want to find out the whys and wherefores, improving the field of therapy more generally.

Either has its advantages and disadvantages.

"Well, you have a couple of years to decide, I suppose. But you might want to look into getting some work experience before you graduate. Some of the university labs are happy to apply for grants for summer projects, so you can even get paid for it. One of my friends did that this summer just gone." She leans in a little, lowering her voice confidingly. "It actually made her realise that the last thing she wants to do with her life is spend it working in a lab." She shrugs, and then smiles brightly. "But that's still useful to know before you start applying for jobs, isn't it?"

"I guess," I mutter, feeling a little overwhelmed. I haven't really thought that far ahead. Not in any detail.

"Just think about it," she says, finishing off the rest of her coffee. (That was fast. I'm sure I would've burned my mouth if I'd tried gulping down a hot - even not-quite-hot-enough - drink like that. Or choked on it. Something embarrassing, that's for sure.) "The sooner you figure out what you want in life, the sooner you can start making it happen."

"Still trying to tell people how to live their lives, I see," Asha's voice drawls from behind me. I manage not to jump, glancing around with - I hope - something approaching dignity. She's looking directly at Daenerys, ignoring me as if I don't exist.

I'm... actually fine with that.

"Still pretending like you have a clue what's going on outside your own narrow little world, Asha?" Danaerys' voice could cut steel.

I swallow silently and start clearing up the work area, trying to keep my movements as small and quiet as possible. I do not want to get drawn into this. I really, really, *really* hope I don't have to try to intervene. (And I refuse to acknowledge the still, small voice inside that's insisting I should just leave right now.)

Asha snorts, pushing off from the wall she's leaning against to stand there with her hands on her hips.

This is... bad. This could be really bad. I look around in vain for help, but there's no one else around. No other customers, Shae isn't due in yet and Ygritte disappeared off for a cigarette break some time ago and never came back.

What should I do?

In the absence of any easy answers, I continue clearing up and making myself inconspicuous.

I glance surreptitiously from one to the other as they square off, struck by the contrast between them. Asha, dark and solid. Danaerys, blonde and ethereal. (Instinctively, inappropriately, the part of my mind that's always telling stories files away every detail of the scene, using it to flesh out the inevitable confrontation between the vampire queen and the leader of the were-sharks.)

"Like you can talk about small worlds," Asha says, contemptuously. "Driven anyone else away lately?"

Danaerys draws herself up, spots of colour forming high on her cheeks. "Made anyone cry lately?"

Asha shrugs laconically. "No one that didn't deserve it. Why, are you about to start bawling?"

"You wish!" Danaerys snaps. "You're nothing but a bully."

"And you're a bloody-"

"Weneedmorecoffeebeans!" I blurt out, my voice sounding childlike and tremulous. Both sets of eyes snap to me, and it's all I can do not to wither under their combined force. Instead, I fix my own gaze on the wall above Asha's shoulder and will my voice not to shake. "Asha, would you mind giving me a hand, please? The sacks are so heavy, and... and I'm not all that strong."

The atmosphere is so thick with tension that I'm finding it hard to breathe. I have time to start to wonder if I've just made a horrible, terrible mistake; if I should just start apologising now and hope they're not too angry with me, but then Asha sighs and turns away.

"I'll go get it. You stay here and man the till."

She stomps off into the stockroom.

I never realised that retrieving a sack of coffee beans could involve so much swearing and banging around.

Daenerys stares after her for a moment, eyes narrowed, then she turns back to me.

"Sorry about that," she says, tightly. "She's just so... She winds me up so much, sometimes." She finishes the rest of her coffee, then sets the cup down on the counter with a loud click and flashes me a rueful smile. "Sorry you got caught in the middle of it."

"It's alright," I say, helpless to say anything else. What else *can* I say? Being anywhere near a confrontation like that makes me feel sick to my stomach? Hardly. So I muster the nearest thing to a smile that I can manage.

"It's not alright," she objects, frowning again. Maybe my smile doesn't come off quite as well as I hope. "I shouldn't have let her rile me like that. Just because we don't get on, that doesn't mean you should catch the fallout."

"I'm okay," I offer. (Asha isn't going to take this out on me. Is she?)

Speaking of the devil, Asha picks that moment to reappear with the beans. Ignoring Daenerys completely, she starts to shove the sack into the cubbyhole beneath the counter, then frowns and pulls out the half-full sack that's already there. Shooting a glare in my direction (I just manage to stop myself from swallowing nervously), she somehow manages to wedge both sacks in there with the open one at the front.

Taking off her apron with short, angry motions, she hangs it on the peg and retrieves her bag.

"It's time for my break," she says shortly, still not bothering to so much as look in Danaerys' direction. I have some errands to run in town. I'll be back soon. You can hold the fort, can't you?"

"Yes," I say, nodding vigorously.

"Good. When Ygritte finally gets her arse back inside, tell her she's a lazy cow and if she doesn't stop slacking off I'm going tell Baelish to dock her pay."

"Ummm..." I have no idea what to say to that but, luckily, she doesn't seem to expect a reply. She stomps out of the shop without either a backwards glance or a goodbye, closing the door hard behind her. The doorbell jangles merrily with her departure. The sound seems incongruous, out of place. She doesn't quite slam the door - not *quite* - but I worriedly search the glass for any signs of cracks.

There are none that I can see. Fortunately.

Danaerys frowns in the direction of the door.

"She really should learn to control her temper."

(I carefully don't let myself think that maybe, perhaps, possibly Asha isn't the only one.)

"She's not usually like this," I say, feeling compelled to defend Asha. "Well... Not really. She's usually alright with me, anyway."

And I've never, *ever* seen her argue so vehemently with a customer before. Not one that wasn't causing trouble, anyway.

Daenerys gives me a dubious look, but doesn't contradict me. "Well, don't forget that there are laws against making a hostile workplace. If it ever does get bad, you do have options. I could help."

"It's okay, really," I say, more firmly. I *like* this job. I definitely don't want to do anything to jeopardise it.

"Well... alright." She sighs. "I suppose I should probably get going, anyway." Her expression brightens again. "I was enjoying our chat, though."

I smile back at her, hopelessly lost in her dazzling blue eyes. "I liked it too."

"We should definitely continue it sometime."

"Yes," I say, a little dazedly.

She settles her backpack in place and adjusting the straps. "Goodbye, Sansa. See you soon."

"Bye."

And, with a smile and a wave, she takes her leave. I stare at the closed door for a few moments after she's stepped through it, shaking off the inescapable sense of deja vu as I try to get my breath back.

"Hey there."

And... there goes my pulse again, racing like it's trying to win the Grand National.

Why oh *why* do people keep sneaking up behind me like that? What's *wrong* with them?

Ygritte is the culprit this time, grinning cheerfully at me in that way of hers that means I can't stay annoyed at her for long.

"Hi Ygritte. Um, Asha said..." And then I stall. How exactly am I supposed to pass on Asha's message? I can't exactly repeat it word for word. Something in me cringes at the very thought.

"I heard," says Ygritte, more cheerfully than I would have expected. I certainly wouldn't be smiling if someone called me a lazy cow and threatened to report me to the manager. "Heard the rest of it, too." She shivers theatrically. "No way in hell was I going to walk into the middle of *that* little dust-up. It's more than my life's worth."

"Oh." I can't really argue with that, I suppose, much though I would have appreciated a rescue.

"Although I do wish I could have seen the looks on their faces." She sighs theatrically. "Oh well. I'm sure there'll be other opportunities."

I really, really hope she's wrong. I don't think my nerves could take another incident like that. I almost thought they were going to come to blows. God only knows what I would have done if *that* happened.

Cried, probably.

"You're not worried about Asha complaining about you to Mr Baelish?" I can't help asking.

"Naah," she says, dropping down onto one of the sofas and flicking idly through a magazine. "I'll just wear shorter skirts and make sure to bend down a lot when he's around. Littlefinger will be too busy drooling to even think about docking my pay." She looks over the magazine at me and waggles her eyebrows. "Maybe he'll even give me a raise."

How can she say something like that so casually? Even the thought of it makes me so uncomfortable that I have to turn away to hide the expression I can feel wanting to surface, self-consciously tugging down my own (knee-length) skirt. When I have myself under control again, I ask about the one thing she said that I can talk about.

Well, that I can talk about without sounding as judgmental as my mother.

"Why did you call Mr Baelish Littlefinger?"

She shrugs carelessly. "I heard some of the other store managers call him that at some corporate team-building thing we went on last year. I don't know why. He laughed it off, but I could tell he hated it." Her eyes sparkle as she flashes me a grin. "It kind of suits him, though, don't you think?"

"I guess," I say, softly. "Where is he today, anyway?"

"Some course or other. I wasn't paying attention. Asha will know." She looks up at the clock, then sighs heavily and puts the magazine down, getting to her feet. "Uh oh. Better get ready for rush hour."

As if her words have summoned them, the first evening customers start trickling almost as soon as she's finished speaking. Luckily, Asha returns just before it gets really busy, briskly tying on her apron and stepping up to the register next to mine.

"Sansa, why don't you switch places with Ygritte?" she says, sounding almost civil. I teeter between relief at not having to face the sea of humanity surging towards the counter, and worry that she thinks I'm doing a bad job. Much to my surprise, she adds: "You've gotten pretty good at making drinks."

Too startled to answer, I just nod and do as she suggests. I'm briefly worried that Ygritte might be annoyed at the switch, but she actually seems pleased.

"Silly Sansa," she whispers as we switch places. "Don't you know the reward for hard work is more work? Thanks for getting me the easy job!"

Then the real rush hits, and there's no time for conversation, speculation or really much of anything aside from working.

And if, during the odd lull here and there, my thoughts should wander to a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed law student?

(She said she liked talking to me.)

(I mean, she was probably just being polite, but still...)

Well.

(She liked talking to me. And if she liked talking to me, does that mean..?)

No one can prove a thing.

(She likes me?)

* * *

Later, when we've shooed the last customer out the door, and my thoughts are already turning towards the preparation I need to do for tomorrow's tutorial, Asha startles me for the second time this evening.

"Sansa, can I have a word?"

"Umm..." I glance around surreptitiously, but Ygritte is bopping around to music on her headphones with her eyes closed, apparently completely oblivious to her surroundings. "Sure. I put the sweeping brush down and turn to face Asha. "What is it?"

Am I getting fired? Did I mess something up? Did a customer complain about their drink? Did *all* of them complain? Oh, please don't let me be getting fired. I like this job. I *need* this job.

"I just wanted to..." She pauses. If she were anyone else, I would say she actually hesitates, but this is Asha. Asha Greyjoy doesn't hesitate. She seizes the day. She clears her throat and continues. "I shouldn't have argued with a customer like that. It was stupid and unprofessional. I'm... sorry you had to see that."

I... What?

I don't believe my ears. Asha... admitting fault? Apologising?

Apologising to *me*?

I don't know what to say. But I have to say *something*. She's looking at me so expectantly, and the seconds are ticking by...

"Umm," I begin, eloquently. "It's okay." I search vainly for something else to say, something to make this whole situation less awkwardly surreal, but I come up blank. Instead, I have to settle for: "At least there were no other customers. And Mr Baelish wasn't here."

"Thank god for small mercies, at least." She throws up her hands, making a wordless sound of frustration. "She just winds me up something *chronic*!"

"I noticed."

Eep! I didn't mean to say that out loud. Luckily, Asha just shoots me an amused glance.

"Yeah, I guess you did. Anyway, it won't happen again." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "*Probably* won't happen again," she amends. "I'm not going to go out of my way to pick a fight with her, anyway. If *she* starts something, though, by *Crom* I'm going to finish it."

"Mmmm," I say, as neutrally and noncommittally as I can. I make a mental note that if Asha and Daenerys even look at each other crosswise, I'm going to start subtly making my way to the nearest exit. The last thing I want is either of them asking me to take sides.

"Anyway," Asha says, dismissing the whole matter with a wave of her hand. "On a more positive note, you did good tonight." She claps me on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, almost knocking me off my feet. "We'll make a barista of you yet!"

"Thanks," I say, standing up straight. I give her a smile, but I probably look a little dazed. If so, she doesn't comment on it.

"You can head off now, if you want. Ygritte and I can finish clearing up."

"Are you sure?"

"Get out of here, Stark," she says, not unkindly. "I'll see you tomorrow. Keep up the good work."

"I will! Um, thanks! See you tomorrow."

I go to hang up my apron and grab my things, but I stop short I hear Asha bellow: "Oi, Ginger!"

I turn around, but she's talking to (well, shouting at) Ygritte, not me.

Phew.

Time to make my escape. Those lecture notes won't read themselves.

And, if I finish in time, maybe I can even work on the story that's been buzzing round in my head for the past couple of days.

Vampires and were-sharks and dragons, oh my!


	4. Chapter 4

The loud roar cuts through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter, startling me out of my reverie. I quickly look up, half-expecting (hoping?) to see the dragon I'd been daydreaming about, right there in the flesh. Nothing so interesting, alas. Just a group of motorcyclists rounding a corner and tearing down the road as if all the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

(A posse of motorcyclists? A herd? A pack? A roar? What is the correct collective noun for a group of motorcyclists, anyway?)

I pause at the kerb, waiting for them to pass before I cross. I might be able to make it across before they reach me, but I wouldn't want to risk it.

Better safe than sorry.

I'm already sinking back into my imagination, only paying the minimal amount of attention to my surroundings, so I almost jump out of my skin at the sudden, loud blaring of a horn. There doesn't seem to be an obvious reason for it that I can see. No near collisions, or inattentive pedestrians, or anything like that. Maybe just general exuberance? Except...

Did that biker just wave at me?

I glance around, but there's no one behind me. No one else who could be the focus of this entirely unexpected attention.

The biker honks his horn again. No, *her* horn. Could it be someone I know? Except I don't *think* I know anyone who rides a motorbike. Someone from my course, perhaps?

What do I do? What do I do?!

I feel my cheeks burn, and know that I must be doing a brilliant impression of a post-box right now.

Great. Just great.

Now I'm paralysed by embarrassment as well as indecision.

Luckily, I've wasted so much time dithering that the flotilla of bikes has roared off into the distance.

Phew.

Crisis over.

That biker probably thinks I'm rude for not acknowledging her, but I'm actually too relieved to care. Anyway, how likely is it that I'm even going to run into her again? Not very, I would've thought. I don't exactly hang around with 'biker chicks'. Which is probably just as well, because I think my mother would pitch a fit.

(Although, maybe that would actually be a point in its favour.)

I give myself a mental shake, look both ways, and then cross the road.

Now, where was I...?

* * *

"Where are this month's invoices?" Mr Baelish asks Asha, sounding distracted. He doesn't even look up from the papers in his hands, so he misses the way she rolls her eyes at his question.

"In the 'Current Month's Invoices' folder," she says, her voice is perfectly polite and professional. Then she spoils it by adding, reproachfully: "Where they usually are."

He frowns. "The folder isn't on the shelf where it's supposed to be."

"Have you moved it?"

"I don't think so. I'll have another look, though."

Asha shakes her head behind his back, looking over at me and silently mouthing a count. When she gets to seven, Mr Baelish's voice floats out faintly from the back room.

"Found it. Thanks."

Asha rolls her eyes again, but forbears to comment.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, leaning in close and keeping my voice to barely above a whisper. "Why is he in such a flap?"

"Fallout from the meeting the other day. Or possibly from the management course. He wasn't really very clear."

"Should we be worried?"

"Doubt it. We're actually doing pretty well for ourselves here. Apparently there's some movement in the upper echelons of our parent corporation, which means all the tiers below that are scrambling to gain an advantage. Or just to fuck over other people. Sounds like it's a bit of a rat's nest at the moment."

"That's awful!" I exclaim softly.

"That's business," she replies, shrugging philosophically.

"Then I'm really glad I'm not going into business," I can't help saying.

She raises her eyebrows.

"You think the hallowed halls of Academia are any better?"

I blink at her, a little nonplussed.

"Well... yes. It's about knowledge, not profits. An entirely different kettle of fish." I can feel myself warming to my subject, my hands fluttering like birds as I try to find the words to explain what I mean. "There's an entirely different philosophy at work. It's about co-operation, not competition. It-" Asha makes a strangled sound in her throat, then abruptly flings her head back and laughs. "What?" I ask a mixture of embarrassment and indignation churning in my stomach. "What's so funny?"

(What did I say?)

She shakes her head, apparently helpless to stop laughing. I swear to god there are actual tears of *mirth* on her cheeks. For one moment, anger flares up within me, the sudden surge of emotion feeling alien and strange. I quickly swallow it down again, deciding to just wait her out.

After a few moments (that feel like a lifetime), Asha gets herself back under control.

"I probably shouldn't laugh," she says, sighing. It's not an apology, not even close, but it's probably the nearest thing to one I'm likely to get from her. Fine. Whatever.

"Why did you?" The edge to my voice suggests I haven't done as good a job of reining in my irritation as I'd thought, and part of me quavers at my daring, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"Because it was damned funny. Academia not about competition? Please. You know what they call the peer review process? The pit of vipers. Academia, like anything else, is made up of people. And people, as a whole, are petty and avaricious sons of bitches."

"That's not true!" I burst out. "Some people are like that, sure, but not everyone." I know - have known - people who are exactly the way she describes. But I also know lots of people who aren't. *I'm* not like that. (At least, I don't think I am. I hope I'm not. I try not to be.) Shae isn't, Ygritte isn't. I don't even think Asha is, not really, despite what she says. And I may not know her very well yet, but I just know that Daenerys isn't. "Anyway," I continue, more sure of my footing now. "It's not like there's any profit in academic research."

"Tell that to Big Pharma."

I gape at her for a moment or two, struggling to find the words to tell her just how wrong she is. But I struggle too long, and she nods in satisfaction, apparently convinced that I'm conceding the point. Which I totally am not. I just need to find the right words.

But she's already turned her attention away from me, looking over my shoulder towards the coffee shop door. Sure enough, the bell jangles.

"You can deal with this one. I'll go and make sure Mr Baelish doesn't ransack the office any further."

And without giving me the chance to say a word, she turns and leaves.

* * *

"You didn't wave back."

"Huh?" My smile freezes and I blink at Daenerys, thrown by the first words out of her mouth when she steps up to the counter. I was expecting something more along the lines of 'hello'.

"When I waved to you on Saturday. You didn't wave back."

I stare blankly. "I didn't... see you?" Saturday, Saturday... The archery thing? I don't think so, but when could- "Wait a minute. The biker chick? That was you?"

The second the words are out of my mouth I wish I could call them back. Or that the ground would open up and swallow me whole. My cheeks are burning so much that I'm almost shocked that I don't burst into flames right where I stand. I duck my head, letting my hair fall forward over my face.

Daenerys' laughter makes me flinch, and for a brief moment, I hear an echo of other laughter, hard-edged and mean. I start to hunch in on myself, but then make myself stop, take a breath, and lift my eyes again. With an effort of will, I shake off the echo as if it was never there (if only it was never there) and look up in the general direction of Daenerys' face.

I can't quite bring myself to meet her eyes.

"Are you okay, Sansa?" Her eyes are still bright, but her expression is turning puzzled, that little frown line between her eyes starting to deepen into visibility.

"Yes, fine. Just..." I frantically search for words, then end up blurting out the truth. "Just embarrassed. I can't believe I said that. And I can't believe I froze when you waved to me." I pull a face. "I didn't mean to be rude. You just took me a little by surprise. I didn't realise it was you."

"You didn't recognise the 'biker chick' as me, huh?" She gives me a soft smile, and I find myself returning it, my face starting to cool a little.

"No," I agree. "I just..." Never would have guessed? Wouldn't have expected it in a million years? Could sooner have believed her to be a dragon's daughter than a motorcyclist? "You don't seem the type," I finish, lamely.

"Because law students aren't generally biker chicks?" she says, teasingly.

I shrug. "Something like that." Belatedly, I remember that I'm supposed to be working. "Oh! Can I get started on your order?"

She blinks like she'd also forgotten that this isn't just a chance meeting of friends. (Are we friends? I'd like to think we could be.)

"Ah, yes. I'll have a medium white chocolate peppermint mocha with semi-skimmed milk, whipped cream and marshmallows, please." I can't help raising my eyebrows a little as I ring that up and take the payment. "I know, I know," she says, smiling ruefully as she pays. "Semi-skimmed milk *and* whipped cream. And all the rest." She shrugs. "What can I say? It made sense in my head."

"I wasn't going to say a thing," I murmur, handing over her change and receipt. I start on her drink.

"No, I guess you wouldn't."

Now, what is that supposed to mean?

Not that I'd dream of asking her. I may not like the answer, after all.

"So, Daenerys Targaryen, law student and... motorcycle gang member?" I ask, instead. "How did that happen?" There has to be a story there. There just *has* to be. "If you don't mind me asking," I append hurriedly.

"Not at all." But she doesn't answer right away. I sneak a glance at her, and the expression on her face is faraway and maybe even a little sad. "I'm more of an... honorary member, really," she says, softly. "My last boyfriend was a biker. The leader of his own gang, actually. They... accepted me as one of them. Eventually. And I still kept in contact with some of them after Drogo... After that relationship ended."

She blinks rapidly a few times and her eyes seem to shine in the late-afternoon sunlight, so I could almost think... Is she...? But even as the thought crosses my mind, she's smiling again.

"Some of them are in town for a bit," she says. "So I go out riding with them once in a while."

"You brought your bike with you to university?" I ask, stupidly.

"Yep." She shrugs. "It's a good way of getting around. Faster than a pushbike, cheaper than a car. There's nothing quite like the open road." She quirks an eyebrow. "What about you?"

"Um, what about me?"

"Do you have transport?"

"Shanks' pony, mostly. Or the bus, if I'm feeling really lazy." I shrug. "I like walking." And, more importantly, it doesn't cost anything. "And pretty much everywhere I need to get to is less than an hour's walk from my house."

Daenaerys raises her eyebrows. "An hour? You really do like walking."

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just shrug again. "Here's your mocha."

"Thank you." She swipes a spoonful of cream from the top of her drink and unselfconsciously pops it into her mouth. "Mmmm..." Setting aside the now-gleaming spoon, she licks a stray smear of cream from the side of her full, glistening lips and then takes a sip of her mocha. "Oh," she sighs, her eyes drifting half-closed. "That's good."

For some reason, I find myself blushing again.

"I'm glad you like it," I mutter, clearing up the workstation. It wasn't exactly the most complicated drink she's ever ordered. It was pretty straightforward, actually.

"It's just what I needed," she says.

Looking at her more closely, I'm surprised to see that she seems... tired.

"Bad day?" I ask sympathetically. I immediately start to worry that I'm being a little forward, but she just smiles back at me.

"More like an irritating day," she says.

"Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

She looks at me blankly for a moment, so that I'm on the edge of muttering something like 'never mind,' or 'it doesn't matter' (or, 'I'm sorry'), but then she smiles and nods.

"Yes, if it won't get you in trouble."

I look around at the mostly empty shop. A couple occupying one of the sofas, oblivious to everything but each other. A harried-looking student typing rapidly on a laptop, muttering under his breath, utterly focused on whatever he's working on. Asha and Mr Baelish are closeted in the back room, arguing over - sorry, 'discussing' - business-related stuff. Shae's on a break and Ygritte's running late.

"No, it's fine."

"Well then, you're on." She takes a seat at the nearest table to the counter. "I've been running a campaign to get the council to put more streetlights in Radford..."

The more she talks, the more I find myself getting drawn in. She's just so passionate, and articulate, and... and her arguments seem to make so much sense. At least when she's speaking. I'm not necessarily completely clear on all the details afterwards, but it sounds like such a good cause. I mean, I've never been to that part of town, but I've heard the stories. More streetlights there can only be a good thing.

"So it turned out that there's a whole new set of forms to fill in before we present the petition," she finishes, grimacing. "And, strictly off the record, one of the clerks told me that we're going to need to double the number of signatures we have for them to even consider it. Which means we've got to somehow find some new groups to target, but no one seems to be able to agree on how we should go about it." She leans back in her chair, sighing heavily. "So, that was my day." She looks at me, grinning ruefully. "Sorry. I think I rambled on a bit there. Thanks for listening. I think I actually do feel better for getting it off my chest."

"You're welcome," I say softly, returning her smile. And then, because the thought has been slowly crystallising in my mind for the past few minutes, I say: "I could help out, if you want."

"I wasn't hinting," she says, looking a little, well, a little embarrassed. "I know I can get carried away sometimes, but I wasn't trying to talk you into anything."

"I know," I say, a little more firmly. "I *want* to help. It sounds like a good cause. And I... I've been thinking that I need to get involved more. In things. Local causes." I feel myself starting to get tongue-tied, so I make myself stop talking and smile.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"Great!" She smiles brilliantly, touching me lightly on the shoulder. "That really is fantastic, Sansa, I mean it. Now." Her expression sobers, her manner turning business-like. (I inwardly mourn the loss of that smile.) "As I said, what we really need right now are more signatures on that petition. Getting it to anyone we haven't already canvassed is probably our best bet. So, probably the most helpful thing you could do right now would be to spread the word."

"Oh." I feel a little faint as I think through the implications of that. "So, should I go up to people and hand out leaflets?" Even thinking about that terrifies me.

"If you want to. But we've already done a pretty good job with the physical campaigning. We've even got a poster up on the noticeboard over there."

She gestures towards the board in the corner. I tactfully refrain from mentioning the fact that I hadn't even noticed the poster. (Heck, I barely even notice the board.)

"I was thinking more along the lines of Facebook and Twitter," she continues. "Also, some university clubs and departments have let us use their noticeboards and mailing lists. I can send you a summary of what we've done so far, together with the relevant files and links. What's your e-mail address?" I recite it dazedly, and she enters it into her phone. "Can I have your phone number as well?" I have to look that up, and I stumble a little over the number, so in the end I end up just holding out my phone to her so she can just read it off the screen. "Thanks."

She puts her phone away and looks at me, smiling again.

"Thank you for your help, Sansa. It really does mean a lot to me."

"You're welcome," I say, and my voice sounds a little more confident this time. I can do this. I can.

"And if it turns out that you don't have time after all, that's fine too. Don't feel obligated to put yourself out for this, okay?"

She actually seems genuinely concerned. Like she thinks I might be feeling pressured into volunteering, and is giving me the chance to back out gracefully.

And under other circumstances, she'd probably be right. But right now?

I actually don't feel pressured at all.

I actually feel like a volunteer.

"I won't," I reassure her. "I mean, I don't know if I'll be able to do much." Because I know my limitations, after all. "But I'd like to do what I can."

"Well, I appreciate it. Thank you."

She bestows on me another one of those glorious smiles.

And as I bask in the warmth, I can't help thinking: Asha and Shae were so wrong about Daenerys.

So very, very wrong.

* * *

I check the list of orders, slightly startled to realise that it's actually shrinking. Looks like the rush is finally tapering off. I glance around the shop, noting that there are even some empty tables here and there. Shae is taking the opportunity to clear and clean them while she can.

Daenerys seems to be immersed in whatever she's working on at the moment. I wonder if it's something for her course, or for some another campaign. I wonder if she'll tell me about it, when we have the chance to talk again. There's still so much I don't know about her. But I'd like to, if she wants to tell me. If she doesn't think it's too much of an imposition on my part. If she really does like talking to me.

If she's not just being polite.

("They only talk to you out of pity, you know. And politeness. But you should hear what they say behind your back. Let me tell you...")

"Earth to Sansa. Come in, Sansa."

I start a little as Ygritte's voice breaks through my reverie.

"What?" I ask, instinctively matching her low tone. "What is it?"

"Your not-so-secret admirer's here."

"Huh?" I stare blankly at her for a moment, then look where she's pointing. "Oh." Reza has just walked through the door, and is chatting with a group of people crammed in around one of the tables. "He's not... He doesn't..."

I stumble over my words, my cheeks flushing despite my fervent wish that they wouldn't. I bend over the cups I'm filling, hoping it'll hide the flush. There are times when I really, really hate my over-developed blush reflex. (The rest of the time I just moderately loathe it.)

"You don't need to deny it," she says, smirking. "Nothing wrong with having an 'admirer' or two." She actually makes air quotes around the word. "Or three."

"It's not *like* that," I protest. "He just talks to me sometimes."

"And invites you to archery competitions."

I shrug helplessly.

"He really likes archery."

"Really likes *you*, you mean."

"No, no, that isn't..." But my voice trails off, my protests losing steam as I look at our past conversations with new eyes. Oh god. I think... I think she might be right. "He likes me?"

"You didn't know?" Ygritte shakes her head, laughing softly. "Of course you didn't. Sansa, I like you a lot, but sometimes I think you know nothing about men."

I open my mouth to object, but close it again without saying anything. What can I say? Ygritte isn't wrong.

"What should I do?" I ask, instead.

"I don't think you need to do much at all. You're in there." She winks suggestively. "Just follow his lead."

"But that's not..."

That's not what I meant. I don't want to be 'in there'. I mean, he seems like a nice guy and all. He's funny and smart. And he has a nice smile. I do like him, as a potential friend, even if he does fluster me sometimes. But I'm just not interested in him as anything more.

So, how do I tell him that?

(Without making him angry?)

"Anyway, he's coming over. I'll take his order, then the two of you can chat." She nudges me. "He's pretty hot, you know. If you get tired of him, or if you don't mind sharing, give me a shout.

I make a small noise that she seems to take as agreement, or something. Something appropriate, anyway. With a final smile and wink, she turns her attention back to the till. I quickly look up, just as quickly casting my gaze back down again when I see Reza starting to head over in the direction of the counter. I focus on making drinks, barely even looking up to hand them over to the handful of waiting customers.

Maybe if I just look busy enough, he won't try to talk to me. Maybe I won't have to say anything at all. Maybe-

"Hi Sansa. How's it going?"

"Um. Hi Reza. Fine thanks. Busy though." But even as I say the words, I realise that the list of orders has dwindled down to two, and I've almost finished the first of those. "How about you?"

"Good, thanks," he replies, brightly.

"Good," I echo faintly. "Um, Chai latte for Tom."

"Thanks," says the customer, nodding amiably as he takes the drink.

"You're welcome," I murmur. At least, that's what I try to say. It comes out as something of an unintelligible murmur. My blush deepens, but the customer has already turned away. By coincidence, Daenerys looks up from her laptop just as my gaze passes over that part of the shop. Our eyes meet briefly, and she smiles. I find myself smiling back.

"What did you think of the competition?"

"Um..." I drop my gaze again, starting to make the last order on the list. Reza's usual latte. Nothing particularly complicated. "It was... interesting."

Dull. Occasionally frightening, but mostly dull. Surrounded by a crowd of strangers, watching people shoot arrows at targets; not even close to my idea of a good time.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it!" Reza smiles brilliantly, the expression lighting up his whole face. I don't have the heart to correct him. "It's a pity you couldn't come to the pub with us afterwards."

"I had an essay I needed to finish before my shift here."

Well, maybe that's not quite true. There was an essay, but it's not actually due in for a couple of weeks yet. I did have a shift here, though.

"You work so hard, Sansa. Too hard, maybe. You know what they say about all work and no play..."

"I do play," I protest half-heartedly. "I've just... got a lot of work to do at the moment."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that you do more than work," he says, sounding pleased.

Why is he sounding pleased?

But I'm distracted from my wonderings by Ygritte tacking another order to the board. I glance at it as I pour the milk into Reza's latte. Two shots, three different syrups, very specific instructions for the type and preparation of the milk. I don't even need to see the name to know who it's for.

Sure enough, a familiar blonde-haired figure moves around to stand by the serving counter. I give her a harried smile.

"I'm just about to get to yours," I tell Daenerys.

She smiles back. "No rush," she says. "I'm not in a hurry."

I put the lid on Reza's cardboard cup and hand it to him.

"There you go. Sorry for the wait."

"Waiting's a pleasure when the company's so good."

"Um..." In my peripheral vision, I see Daenerys turn to regard Reza thoughtfully. "Thanks," I mutter, not knowing what else to say.

I start on Daenerys' drink, hoping that Reza will take the hint that I'm too busy to talk. (Even if I do feel a regretful pang at not being able to chat to Daenerys while I work.)

"So." Okay, he didn't take the hint. "I was wondering..."

He trails off. I wait for him to continue, fighting the urge to hunch over as I lock the head onto the machine and start the drip. The silence soon starts to feel awkward, however, tense in a way that makes the skin between my shoulder-blades prickle and crawl, so eventually (well, after a handful of seconds), I just have to break it.

"Yes?" I ask. Well, squeak. Sometimes (often) I really hate my voice.

Reza clears his throat.

"I was, ah, wondering if perhaps you'd like to come to the cinema with me? Maybe tonight?"

I freeze.

"Um," says my mouth, without any help from my brain. "I don't..."

"I was thinking the Showcase on Redfield Way. Do you know it?" I nod without looking at him. "Great! We could go for something to eat beforehand. Or afterwards, maybe." He sounds a lot less hesitant now, picking up conversational steam. "Whatever you want. There are a few decent restaurants near there."

"Um," I say again, mechanically continuing to pour syrups and check the milk temperature.

"Is tonight good? I was thinking maybe around seven? Either we could meet there, or I could pick you up. Whichever you prefer. Whereabouts do you live?"

Say you're not interested. Say you're busy. Say anything.

"City Road," I mumble.

Anything but that.

"Really? Cool. Not that far from the cinema. I know a few people who live around there, actually. Small world, hey?"

"I suppose." I can hardly even hear my own voice over the sound of the coffee machine hissing and burbling away.

"So, shall I pick you up at seven? Your house is practically on my way, so it makes sense."

"Um!" Even at barely louder than a whisper, my own ears can hear the panic in my voice. I don't think Reza does, though. He's asking me about films, now; asking which I'd prefer out of all the available options.

Is he just assuming I'll say yes? Or, does he think I already have? Is that what he took from my strangled mumbling?

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe he means 'go out' like 'go out as friends'. Maybe that's all this is. Maybe Ygritte is wrong.

I look up, and he's suddenly leaning in close, reaching... reaching for my hand? And the look in his eyes is a little soft, a little hopeful.

She isn't wrong.

Ygritte isn't wrong.

Reza likes me. He *like*-likes me.

Oh god.

What do I do?

I freeze, my gaze flicking around in panic, looking for a way out, looking for help.

Daenerys is looking at me, puzzled concern in her eyes.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, she smiles.

"Sorry to interrupt," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Sansa, do you want to call off tonight's meeting about the Radford Lights project?

I stare at her for a moment, wondering what she's talking about, wondering if I've forgotten something, wondering what I've messed up *this* time and if she's going to be angry.

And then the realisation suddenly hits me like a tonne of bricks.

For once, there's a light at the end of the tunnel and it isn't an oncoming train.

She's giving me a way out.

Reza looks to Daenerys, and then back to me, frowning in confusion. (Or annoyance?)

"Sansa?" he asks.

My throat is so dry I have to swallow a couple of times before I speak. I take a step backwards, ostensibly to reach for a clean cloth. (Really, it's to get out of range. Even though I'm sure it's not necessary. Not this time. I'm sure.)

I address my first words to Daenerys. "No, that's okay," I say. I hope my voice doesn't sound as wobbly as I feel. Turning to Reza, I offer him what I hope is an appropriately rueful smile. "I'm afraid I have plans tonight," I say softly, mentally crossing my fingers at the fib. "Sorry."

Part of me, the part that wants to say yes, that wants to please, that wants to just keep things peaceful, almost makes me add 'maybe another time.' Luckily, I manage to choke the words back, biting the side of my tongue so hard that it hurts.

"Oh." Reza sounds disappointed. (Not angry. Not mean. Not angry.) "Maybe another time?"

"Um, maybe." I just can't bring myself to say I'm not interested. I can't. "I'm... I am pretty busy at the moment." Which is about as close as I can get to actually saying no.

I guess it isn't really all that close.

"Oh," he says again, but then he brightens. "Maybe we can talk about it on Wednesday?"

"Wednesday?" I ask, confused.

"Archery practice. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Oh no. I mean: Oh. No. I... haven't forgotten." I've been trying to forget, hoping he would. "I might be needed here, though."

"Well, if you can make it, that would be great. If not, there'll be other times." He gives me a smile, even though it doesn't quite match the sheer wattage of earlier. "Thanks for the coffee, Sansa. Bye for now."

"You're welcome. Bye."

And then he's gone.

And I can breathe again.


	5. Chapter 5

I set the cup carefully down on the saucer, relieved when they don't rattle against each other. The way my heart is racing, it feels like I should be shaking like a leaf. Whipped cream next. And maybe it isn't quite as neat as it could be, but that's nothing a quick wipe with a clean cloth won't solve. Finally, sprinkles. Cinnamon, not chocolate. Plus hundreds and thousands. (A little strange on something coffee-based, but it's probably not the strangest thing she's ever asked for.)

And... done.

"There you go," I say, smiling up at Daenerys. "Sorry for the wait."

"You didn't keep me waiting at all," she says, reassuringly. "I don't expect you to conjure up a drink instantaneously."

"I suppose not."

I feel my pulse start to slow to something approaching normal levels, suddenly becoming aware of the ache in the back of my neck as the muscles there finally begin to relax.

Daenerys doesn't retake her seat right away, lingering by the counter as she sips her coffee. I tidy up the workstation. Ygritte is dealing with another customer at the moment, so there's going to be an order coming through any minute now.

(I'm actually a little glad Ygritte is otherwise occupied. It gives me some time to compose myself before her inevitable questions about how it went with Reza.)

Daenerys glances around surreptitiously, almost shiftily, then wipes up stray dribble of cream with her finger and sucks the digit clean. I pretend to be engrossed in my tidying. I wouldn't want to make her feel self-conscious, after all.

(And I certainly wouldn't want her to think I'm watching her.)

"I hope you didn't mind me butting in just now," says Daenerys when her mouth is no longer full. "But you looked like you needed a lifeline. The drink's good, by the way. Like always."

"Um, thanks. And you weren't butting in," I hasten to reassure her. "I appreciated your help, thank you."

"You're welcome."

She looks like she's going to say something else, but then apparently changes her mind. I continue to go through the motions of cleaning, very conscious of her silent presence.

It leaves me feeling... conflicted.

She leans against the counter, eyeing me thoughtfully.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Her eyes narrow. "Was that person bothering you?"

"No. No, he wasn't," I hasten to reassure her. "Not really."

Well, he was, but that wasn't really his fault. It was mine. If I wasn't so pathetic, I'd be able to cope with something as simple as being asked out by a guy, even one I'm not actually interested in. I'd be able to tell him 'thanks, but no thanks' politely but firmly, and we'd both just go on with our lives.

She looks at me for a moment, maybe giving me a chance to continue speaking, if I want to.

I don't.

What would I say?

"Archery?" she asks eventually, the expression on her face one I can't easily figure out.

"Pardon me?"

God, I sounded *just* like my mother then. Oh, the horror. The horror.

"You're taking up archery?"

"No way!" The words burst out before my mind has quite caught up with my mouth. "I mean, maybe," I stutter, my cheeks flaming once again. "I kind of told Reza I'd give it a try," I find myself adding.

"Reza's the guy who just asked you out?" I nod miserably. Daenerys frowns, tapping her fingers in a staccato rhythm on the counter. "And you don't want to learn archery?" I shake my head, still not able to find my voice. Her fingers still and she wraps her hands around her mug, although she doesn't take another drink yet. "So, why don't you tell him that?" she asks, simply.

I shoot her a look I only hope isn't as panicky as I feel right now.

"But I already told him I'd go," I explain, willing her to understand. "I can't just back out. It would be rude."

Her frown deepens.

"Not if you explain your reasons. Just tell him you've thought about it, and realised that it isn't for you. Simple as that."

Maybe for her. It never feels that simple, though. (It hasn't for a long time.)

"I guess," I mutter.

"Order up," says Ygritte cheerfully, sticking the slip of paper to the board. She leans in close to nudge me companionably and whisper: "I'm looking forward to hearing how it went, before turning back to her conversation with the customer.

I swallow a sigh as I get on with the order. (Green tea. Unusual for this place, but not exactly difficult. Not exactly something I need to focus all my attention on.)

(That's almost a pity. I could do with a distraction right about now.)

Daenerys seems content to stand there and drink her coffee while I make the tea. By the time I glance back over, it's half gone. I'm amazed she hasn't burned her mouth. She sets her cup down as I glance over at her, and I wince internally in anticipation of more questions (more reproach). Like: why didn't I just tell Reza I don't want to go out with him? But what she says is:

"You know, we probably should have a quick meeting about the project." It takes me a moment to recall what she's talking about, shifting mental gears with a grinding that feels like it should be audible. "I've e-mailed you the relevant information, but it probably would be easier to go through it in person."

She seems to be expecting a response, so I nod.

"That makes sense."

"Good." She smiles, and I find myself standing up a little straighter, even smiling back at her. "Some of us are getting together tonight to discuss things. If you come along, I could introduce you to them at the same time; kill two birds with one stone." Her expression turns a touch rueful. "It's maybe throwing you in at the deep end a little bit, but there's only going to be a handful of people there. And they're generally a friendly bunch. Honest."

I might be more convinced by that 'friendly' if she hadn't felt the need to add 'honest' at the end.

"When is it?" I ask, more to give myself time to think than anything else.

"Eight-thirty, in my house in Beeston."

"Oh." I tap Ygritte on the arm and hand the tea to her to pass onto the customer, then turn back to Daenerys. "I'm afraid I don't finish here until eight-thirty."

I'm a little startled to realise that I actually feel disappointed about that.

"That's okay," she says cheerfully. "We hardly ever start on time and even if tonight is one of the rare exceptions, it'll give us the chance to get the boring stuff out of the way before you arrive."

I consider that for a moment.

"I guess I could get there by nine or so if I take the bus. Nine-thirty at the outside, if that's not too late."

"Does that mean you'll come? If it helps to sweeten the deal, there'll be food."

"Okay. I'll be there."

"Great!" She positively beams at me, like she's actually pleased I've said yes. "Hang on a sec." Fishing out her phone, she fiddles with it for a moment or two. "There." My phone beeps to signal an incoming text-message. "I've just texted you the address. It's pretty easy to find, but let me know if you need directions."

"I have a map," I say, and she nods. (I don't tell her it's an actual, physical A to Z, rather than an app or route finder or something like that. That risks letting her know that I only have a *stupid* phone, and that I can't afford a smart one. I don't want her to pity me. Well, no more than she no doubt already does.) "Shall I text you when I actually leave here? Then you can let me know if it's going to be too late."

"Good idea. If we order dinner when you're getting on the bus, it should arrive just after you do. Is pizza okay?"

"Yes, that's fine." I hesitate over asking the obvious, embarrassing question, but decide to go ahead anyway. "Um, how much cash should I bring?"

I don't like carrying around more money than I'm likely to need. Less risk of accidentally going over budget that way. And, speaking of budget, I probably shouldn't really be allowing myself the indulgence of take-away food. But as long as I'm good for the rest of the month it should be alright.

(Anyway, I wouldn't want Daenerys and her friends to think I'm cheap.)

"Oh, don't worry about it. The rule of these meetings is that the organisers provide the food." She grins. "It's supposed to be an incentive for everyone else to show up."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose."

"It's no imposition," she says firmly. I can't help feeling a little relieved. (Even though I also feel a little guilty for not protesting more. Not guilty enough to turn down free pizza though, apparently.) "So, do you have any preferences?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the pizza. Any requests, or allergies, or anything I should know about before we order? Our usual place doesn't have that much variety, I'm afraid, but their pizzas are very good."

"Um, I'm sure I'll be fine with whatever you want to order."

I manage to muster up a smile. It's actually not that hard, even with the lump in my stomach that comes from knowing I'm going to be meeting a bunch of strangers in a few hours. Strangers who all know each other already. But I'm sure it'll be fine. They're Daenerys' friends, after all. I'm sure that they're all nice people.

Anyway, they'll be discussing Project business, so maybe I won't even have to say anything much.

"You're not vegetarian or anything?"

"No."

"Just thought I'd make absolutely sure. Okay, then." She nods and smiles. "Well, I suppose I'd better get some more work done before I have to leave." She sighs and picks up her cup and saucer. "I will see you later."

"See you later," I echo.

I watch her as she heads back to her seat, feeling a little off-balance. First I'm asked out on a date (oh god), and now I'm going to a committee meeting for a project I've volunteered to help out with. At Daenerys' house. With her friends.

It's been a funny old day, that's for sure.

And it's not over yet.

* * *

I take a deep breath and knock firmly on the door. No turning back now. (Well, technically I could just leg it before anyone answers, but I'm not going to do that. No matter how much I'm tempted to all of a sudden.)

I hear a murmur of voices from inside, and an unfamiliar female voice calls out: "Just a minute."

I wait.

A few moments later, the door opens to reveal a smiling, dark-haired girl. Woman, rather. Her *very* low-cut peasant blouse leaves no doubt whatsoever about that. (I resist the sudden ridiculous urge to cross my arms self-consciously in front of my own, rather more modest décolletage.) Her eyes twinkle good-humouredly as she looks me up and down.

"Hello there. You must be Sansa."

It isn't quite a question, but I nod anyway.

"Yes. Sorry I'm late."

She waves a hand airily. "Oh, you're fine. Don't worry. It's barely quarter past nine and we haven't even really started yet. I don't know why Dany even thought that was a possibility." She rolls her eyes, smiling side-wise at me like she's sharing a joke. I smile back uncertainly. "Anyway," she says. "Come in, come in. Let's not keep you standing out there on the doorstep."

"Thank you."

She stands aside to let me step past her, into a white-walled, grey-carpeted hallway. The carpet is the kind of plain, hard-wearing stuff I've come to realise is pretty much a standard fixture of student housing. Mother would approve.

As the woman - housemate? committee member? friend? - turns to close the door, I can't help admiring the fall of her hair; the way it swirls around her shoulders. Mine is so thin and flyaway. I can never get it to shine like that. She turns back to face me again, and I find myself staring unexpectedly straight into her cleavage. I jerk my gaze upwards, fighting the urge to blush and apologise.

Well, I fight the urge to apologise, anyway. I don't have any control over the blushing.

(Is it my imagination, or does she seem amused?)

(It's probably just my imagination.)

(But at least she doesn't seem annoyed.)

I'm just trying to pluck up the courage to ask her name when she chooses to enlighten me.

"I'm Doreah, Dany's girlfriend. Pleased to meet you."

Girlfriend. Dany.

*Girlfriend.*

I can almost hear the snap of something breaking inside my brain as I try to process the bombshell Doreah just dropped so casually.

Girlfriend? Doreah is Danerys' - Dany's - girlfriend?

Daenerys likes girls?

With a start, I realise that the silence is starting to stretch just a little too long for politeness' sake.

"Nice to meet you too, Doreah," I manage.

"Oh, call me Dor. Everyone does."

"Like the Opener," I murmur absently, still too busy trying to work through the idea of Daenerys having a *girlfriend* to keep my inner geek quiet.

"Huh?"

"Oh, um, there's a character? In a really old TV mini-series called Neverwhere?" My voice is doing the really annoying lilting up at the end of a sentence thing that it often does when I'm nervous, turning everything I say into a question. I hate it. I try to make it stop. "It's by Neil Gaiman?" Apparently I'm not trying hard enough. I redouble my efforts. "There's also a book." Better. "And a radio series that came out recently." Beside the point. Stop *waffling*, Sansa! "Anyway, there's a character in it called Door. She... opens things."

"Oh, I see." Doreah - Dor - stops looking at me completely gone-out, and nods sagely. I cringe inside at what she must think of the weirdo that her *girlfriend* has invited along to this meeting. Much to my surprise, she gives me a friendly smile. "You're another one of them."

Now it's my turn to look at her gone out.

"Um, one of 'them'?"

"A fantasy nut." I half wonder if I should be insulted (upset), but her smile and playful tone make it hard to do anything but share in her clear good humour. "Are you a LARPer as well?"

I quickly shake my head.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Heh. Give it time." Dor leans in towards me and touches me lightly on the arm. "Dany's probably just biding her time so she doesn't scare you off. She's even persuaded *me* to go along a couple of times, and I'm the last person who'd be interested in running around the campus at night pretending to fight monsters."

"Oh."

(Would it be stupid to be disappointed that Daenerys *hasn't* tried to recruit me for her LARP group?)

(Probably.)

(But that doesn't stop me.)

"Anyway, we'd better head on in. The others will be wondering what we're doing out here."

Dor winks at me, and for some inexplicable reason, I feel my face heat again. Luckily, she doesn't comment on my sudden resemblance to a beetroot, turning to lead me down the short hallway towards the sound of voices.

I follow her into what seems to be a living room, only just managing not to bump into her as she stops just inside the door. Peering curiously over her shoulder, my first impression one of space and comfort and colour. Bright rugs partially cover the somewhat industrial-looking carpet, and there are posters and pictures on the walls. The sofa doesn't match the assortment of armchairs, but they all look soft and inviting. A table has been pushed against the wall, apparently being used as storage space for various papers and books.

It seems... homey. And studenty.

I like it.

Daenerys is sitting on one of the armchairs, her head up and her back very straight, something about her posture making me think of queens and thrones. She doesn't look up as we step through the door. Her attention is focused on two of the room's other occupants.

"-not saying we should give up," one of the objects of her attention is saying. He's tall - or, he would be if he was standing - with close-cropped reddish brown hair and a beard. He sounds... irritated. (My pulse speeds up a little, and I have to fight not to hesitate on the threshold of the room.) "Just that we should reprioritise our objectives."

The man he's talking to - short and solidly built, with thick black hair pulled back in a ponytail - makes a disparaging noise.

"What does that mean when it's at home?"

"It means that what we're doing isn't working, so we need to take some time to rethink our strategy."

"Right, fine. Petitions and *bureaucracy* aren't working." The word practically drips with contempt, the speaker pulling a face like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "But that means we need to step things up a notch, not dial them back." He leans forward, thumping his leg for emphasis. "We should be picketing the council offices. We should be organising demonstrations and marches. What we *need* are boots on the ground."

"What do you think this is, the eighties?" the first man scoffs.

"Gentlemen." Daenerys doesn't shout, but the two men instantly turn to look at her. "I don't think this is helping."

"This is our cue," Dor mutters to me, then strides boldly forward. I stumble a little as I try to keep up with her, caught off-guard by the sudden movement.

"Here's your latest victim, Dany. Sorry, *volunteer*," she says sweetly.

Daenerys frowns, but Dor heads off whatever protest she might have made by the simple expedient of leaning in and kissing her. Thoroughly. I quickly look away (I can't tear my eyes away), my face flaming like the surface of the sun. Ponytail is rolling his eyes in a way that manages to seem impatient yet fond, while Redbeard is looking distinctly... sour. I file that information away for later consideration.

"Hi, Sansa," Daenerys says, when Dor (finally) lets her surface for air. To my relief, Dor claims an armchair of her own, putting a little distance between the two of them. (Enough that I'll have some warning if she goes for another kiss, so I'll be able to look away in time.)

"Hello," I say, managing a small smile despite the combination of nervousness, shock and embarrassment roiling in my chest. "Sorry I'm a little late. I had to wait for the bus."

"That's alright." Daenerys' own smile warms me through, easing some of the tension inside. "We haven't really started yet. Take a seat, and I'll introduce you to everyone."

The sofa is closer, but I make my way to one of the chairs instead, wobbling a little as I try to avoid sinking all the way into it. I end up perching a little awkwardly on the edge. (Better a little discomfort now than an undignified scramble to get up again later.)

"The two gentlemen on the sofa are Jorah and Barristan."

Redbeard and Ponytail, respectively. Jorah gives me a polite smile, but his attention is clearly on Daenerys. (Which I can totally understand. Something about her is just so... compelling.) Barristan nods at me.

"Welcome to the madhouse, Sansa," he says affably. "Call me Stan."

"Hello," I say again.

"The lady over in the corner is Missandei."

I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't even noticed her. The argument (and Daenerys, and then that *kiss*) had drawn pretty much all of my attention. Missandei turns out to be a girl with a mass of dark curls and a serious expression. She looks up from the book in her lap.

"Nice to meet you, Sansa," she says softly. There's a slight accent to her words that I can't quite place.

"Nice to meet you too," I reply, glad that my manners seem to function on autopilot. (That's something I can thank Mother for, I suppose.)

"We're missing a couple of people, but this is basically the core of the project committee," says Daenerys.

"What happened to Daario and Xaro, anyway?" Missandei asks curiously. "I thought they were supposed to be here too."

"They had other plans."

Danerys sounds faintly irritated. Jorah, on the other hand, actually seems... pleased?

"It doesn't matter," he says, meeting Daenerys' gaze. "We don't really need them anyway. And we'll probably get far more done without them here."

"Like we have so far, you mean?" From anyone else, that would probably come across as snappish. Maybe even harsh. From Daenerys, though, it just sounds like an observation. (Okay, maybe a slightly snappish one. With just a touch of sarcasm, perhaps. Alright, maybe more than a touch of sarcasm.) "Never mind," she continues, shaking her head. She flashes a rueful smile over in my direction. "Sorry, Sansa. I'm afraid you're not seeing us at our best tonight."

I start to fumble for words to assure her that it's fine, really, that everything seems fine to me, but Dor cuts across my hesitant muttering with a pert:

"Speak for yourself, Honey."

Daenerys rolls her eyes.

"Fine, okay. *You're* at your best, Doreah, as always."

"That's more like it," Dor sniffs, then winks at me. "I've got her well-trained."

I choke a little. For a moment, I am *so* glad I'm not sitting in Dor's place; that I'm not on the receiving end of the death glare Daenerys turns on... on her girlfriend. (For a moment, just a moment, it feels like there's a weight on my chest, like it's getting hard to breathe.) But then I see the amusement in Daenerys' eyes, the way that she can't hold the glare for long before it melts into a fond expression.

(There's no anger there, nor even real irritation. It's all just in good fun.)

"*Anyway*," Daenerys says firmly, her tone saying clearly that it's time to get back to business. "The pizzas should be here soon. Let's at least try to get the important things settled before they arrive, shall we?" She doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I've been looking at the numbers..."

* * *

The pizzas turn out to be really good. I still feel faintly guilty about not paying my share, but not guilty enough not to eat my fill. I actually end up eating more than I intended, but there's plenty of it, and the others keep encouraging me to have more. Anyway, I'm sure Jorah and Stan eat as much between them as the rest of us put together. *And* there's still plenty left over.

I start to relax a little as the evening goes on. Daenerys was right - they do all seem pretty friendly. It also helps that I quickly realise I can get away with hardly opening my mouth at all. (Which, thankfully, makes it much harder for me to put my foot in it.) I spend most of my time just watching and listening.

(And, maybe, weaving them into the story in my head.)

The time passes relatively quickly, and I'm startled to realise it's almost half past midnight when the meeting finally wraps up.

I'm going to be so dead tomorrow morning.

Even so, I linger a little, hoping to be able to talk to Daenerys a little before I leave, but Stan and Jorah seem to be occupying her attention. From the snatches of conversation that drift over, it sounds like they're planning some kind of military campaign. Maybe it's something to do with their LARP thing.

(Not that I'm at all envious or anything.)

(Except I am. I totally, totally am.)

Dor's already taken her leave of the group, disappearing off upstairs saying something about heading to bed. I'm not sure if she lives here, or if she's just staying the night. (Either way, she's probably sharing a bed with Daenerys. But I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm not. I'm *not*.) I know Missandei lives here, though. She's quietly and efficiently going around the room gathering up discarded pizza boxes and the other assorted detritus of the evening. I give her a hand.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome," I say softly.

"It's nice to have help for once," she mutters, flashing me a quick, wry smile before returning to what seems to be her customary seriousness.

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just make a vague, noncommittal 'hmm' sound and get on with it. Between the two of us, the clearing up doesn't take that long at all. We don't talk much, beyond a few questions and pleasantries, but that's fine. The silence doesn't feel awkward at all. In what seems like almost no time, Missandei is bidding me goodnight, and Jorah and Stan are leaving.

Now it's just Daenerys and me.

"So, how did you find the meeting?" she asks.

"It was..." What's the word? "Interesting."

She laughs.

"That's one word for it, I suppose. Thank you for coming. It's good to have a fresh point of view once in a while, and you had some good ideas."

I did? That's news to me. It's nice of her to say that, though.

"I don't know about that, but thank you." I dither awkwardly for a moment or two. "Anyway, I guess it's getting kind of late. I suppose I should let you get to bed."

(With Dor.)

(Oh god. Don't let me blush. *Please* don't let me blush.)

"Are you going to be alright getting home?" Daenerys asks me, frowning a little. "Do you want me to call you a taxi?"

I feel warmed by her concern.

"No, it's fine," I assure her. "It's not that far, and the walk will do me good."

I've never had a particular problem with walking late at night. (It's a long time since I've believed that monsters only come out in the dark.) I actually find it relaxing. And it isn't as if I have to go through any dodgy areas, like Radford.

More practically, I just don't have the money to waste on frivolous taxi journeys.

"Well, if you're sure..." She doesn't sound convinced, but she doesn't try to persuade me otherwise.

(I realise that I was already working out the location of the nearest cash machine, on the assumption that she would. And that I would give in. Just like always. God, that's pathetic.)

"Anyway," she continues. "On a completely different note, there's something I'd like to ask you."

I blink stupidly at her as I try (and fail) to process her words.

"Oh?" I manage to squeeze out, relieved beyond measure when my voice doesn't squeak.

"I don't know if you know this, but I'm a member of the university roleplaying games society." She pauses, clearly waiting for a response.

I nod.

"Yes, I know."

"Well, we hold a live action game on Saturday evenings, and I was wondering if you'd like to come along."

She pauses again, and I *want* to respond, I really do, but I can't seem to make my voice work. It's completely the opposite problem that I had with Reza, because I want to say yes; yes, of course I would. Because I've been hoping for this ever since Dor first mentioned it. I mean, pretending to be someone else for a few hours? Dressing up in costume to fight imaginary monsters? If that isn't right up my alley, I don't know what is.

But I'm so terrified of making a fool of myself, of coming across as too eager, too *desperate*, that it's tying my tongue in knots.

Say something, Sansa! Say yes. Say *yes*.

"Um, what would it involve?"

God, I sound so timid. ("What? What was that? Pardon? Nope, still can't hear you. Louder, Sansa, I don't speak Mouse.") I hate it.

"Well, the short version is that it's like 'let's pretend,' but with rules." She grins at me and I manage to smile back. (Although mine is undoubtedly a pale, watery thing next to hers.) "The people running the game create the setting, including all the incidental characters, and put together the plot. You come up with a character you want to play and, well, play them. That's pretty much it. The 'live action' part just means you actually act out what your character does, rather than just describing it. The setting is medieval-ish, with magic; a basic sword and sorcery-type fantasy world. The campaign so far has been mostly standalone adventures - you know, the typical monster-slaying and McGuffin hunts - but we're starting to get the first hints of meta-plot. No doubt we'll be saving the world in epic fashion by the campaign's end."

I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't actually need to breathe, but she finally seems to have reached the end of her spiel.

I search my mind for something intelligent to say.

"It... sounds a little like improvisational theatre."

"I suppose it is, a little." She looks like she's actually considering that, so maybe it wasn't as stupid an observation as I worried it might be. (That, or she's just being polite.) "Have you done any of that before?"

I nod.

"A little, back in school. Not for a long time now, though."

A long, long time. Not in actual years, I guess, but it certainly feels that way.

(I don't really want to think about it. So I don't.)

"Great! I'm sure that experience will stand you in good stead if you decide to come along."

Wait... 'If?' I thought I already... No. No, I guess I didn't.

"It sounds like fun," I manage to say. "I'd love to give it a go."

She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"You're not just saying that to be polite, are you?" she asks, and I can't quite figure out her tone. (I'm already starting to cringe before I process the fact that, whatever's going through her head, she doesn't seem to be annoyed.)

"No, that's not... I mean, I do want to try it out. Really."

But I can't say that I'd never agree to do something just because I suck at saying no. Not only is that completely untrue, but she *knows* it's completely untrue.

"Tell you what," she says, not unkindly. "Think it over, and if you are interested in coming along on Saturday, let me know. You've got my phone number and e-mail address. And I'm sure I'll be stopping by the coffee shop sometime between now and then. Especially since the coffee seems to have gotten much better lately."

She smiles warmly at me, and just like that I'm not feeling flustered any more. I think I'm even standing taller.

"I'll do that," I say, and I actually sound like a normal person for once. (Well, as normal as I ever get, anyway.) "But I really am interested in coming along. I'm not just saying that to be polite."

"That's good," she says. "But better safe than sorry, n'est-ce pas?"

She speaks French? Of course she speaks French. Why wouldn't she? For some reason, I dredge up some of my own (very rusty) French to reply.

"Bien sur."

She looks startled for a moment, then chuckles ruefully.

"I just lapsed into French didn't I?" I nod, but she doesn't seem to need the confirmation. "Sorry about that. It happens sometimes when I'm tired. Or stressed."

"It's okay. I understood you."

"Just as well it wasn't Berber," she sighs, and then shakes her head. "Anyway, that's probably a sign that I've rambled on for long enough, especially since you're walking home. Sorry about that."

"You don't need to apologise," I hasten to assure her. "I did ask, after all. It's okay. Really."

I really, really, *really* want to know more about her sudden and hitherto unsuspected talent with languages. Is she bilingual? Trilingual, even? She doesn't have an accent that I've noticed. It feels like I have a thousand and one questions just begging to be answered.

But... this isn't the time. (I definitely don't want to outstay my welcome.)

Poot.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Assuming that you're still interested in LARPing after sleeping on the idea, I can take you through the basics of the system and help you put together a character if you want."

"I'd like that," I say.

"Great!" She smiles at me again, and then suddenly yawns, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. (I swear, she even manages to make that look elegant. Somehow. Maybe she learned it at the same secret training academy I think Shae must have attended. I wonder where I can sign up.) "Oh, excuse me."

I think that's my cue.

"I should probably get going," I say. "Thank you for inviting me over. And... And for the rescue, earlier."

"You're welcome. On both accounts."

We say our goodbyes, and I begin my weary trek homewards. (Okay, it's not really that far. But I think I'm allowed a little poetic license every now and then. However, I've barely gone more than a handful of steps when Daenerys calls to me from the doorway.

"Oh, Sansa?"

I pause mid-stride, turning to face her with eyebrows raised.

"Yes?"

"I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but there's one more thing that you need to know about the LARP group."

"What is it?"

I don't think I've seen that particular grin on her face before. If I had to pick one word to describe it, the one I'd choose would be (beautiful) mischievous.

I like that look on her.

(I *like* that look on her.)

"Dressing up is *strongly* encouraged."

"Oh."

Oh.

Just what am I letting myself in for?


	6. Chapter 6

"You're doing *what*?!"

In retrospect, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have given Asha some other reason why I can't cover the Saturday evening shift this week. Working on coursework, perhaps, or even washing my hair. Anything but the truth.

Oh, well. It's too late now.

"Um, LARPing," I offer, even though I'm more or less sure that the question is rhetorical. "It starts at seven, so I'm afraid I won't be able to-"

"I know when it starts!" she almost bellows. In my peripheral vision, I see customers start to look over at us curiously, and I cringe inwardly at the thought of the scene we're making. She glowers at me like I've just insulted her mother, or maybe her boat, and I try not to wilt beneath the force of her stare. Her mouth opens again, and I cringe in anticipation of another outburst, but the words that come out are almost... soft. "So, you've gone to the dark side," she murmurs.

"It's not... I don't... I..."

I stutter helplessly, uselessly, for a moment or two before I make myself stop. I have absolutely no clue what to say. What is her *problem*, anyway? So she doesn't like LARP. Fine, whatever. It's not like I'm actually trying to drag her along with me! (I quake a little inside at the very thought of it.)

"*Fine*," she growls, shaking her head. "If you're going to let *her* corrupt you into bad habits, the least I can do is try to balance the scales a little. Be a good influence." Asha as a *good* influence? I almost go cross-eyed trying to visualise that. "You're coming with me to training on Sunday."

I blink stupidly at her, trying to process her words.

"Um, what?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Living History Soc," she explains impatiently. "We train on Sundays. This weekend, you're coming with me."

Her tone brooks no argument. I try anyway, opening my mouth to protest - I was going to *study* on Sunday - but the most I can manage is a weak and tremulous:

"But..."

"What?" she barks in response, and I find myself chickening out.

(Well, there's a surprise.)

("How can someone so tall and gangling have so little backbone? It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Maybe if you didn't act like such a *victim* all the time, you wouldn't get treated like one.")

"I don't have any equipment or anything," I say instead, timidly.

"You can borrow some. There are always some spares lying around for newbies. We start at one o' clock. I'll pick you up from your house at twelve." She glares at me until I nod. "Any questions?"

"Um..."

Do I have to?

I don't say that out loud, no matter how much I'm tempted. Somehow, I don't think it would go down at all well. Anyway, would it really be so bad? I can't really see myself wearing armour and swinging a sword around, but the rest of it, the arts-and-crafty stuff, learning how to make things using proper historical techniques... Well, I've always thought that sounded kind of cool. Maybe if I suffer through a sword lesson or two, I'll actually get to do some of that.

Maybe.

I realise that I've already resigned myself to my fate.

I sigh inwardly and try to meet Asha's gaze with something like dignity.

"Do I need to bring anything?" I ask.

"Water," she says, nodding with what I tentatively think might be approval of my apparent obedience. "Swinging a sword around is thirsty work." Eep. "Wear clothes you can move in. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know." Grinning suddenly, startlingly, she claps me on the shoulder hard enough to stagger me. I manage to bite back a yelp. "Cheer up, Stark. I'll make a fighter of you yet."

Somehow, I doubt it.

I just hope she isn't too angry with me when I fall on my face.

And I can only pray that doesn't turn out to be literally.

* * *

Daenerys smiles at me as I set our cups down on the table. I smile back, feeling a tingle of excitement as I take a seat across from her and open my notepad. (I carefully make sure to turn to a page that isn't covered with scrawled story ideas and first drafts of scenes. I'd just *die* if she saw those. I would literally drop down dead of embarrassment.) I can't help but be aware of Asha's dark presence behind the counter, the silent rumble of disapproval emanating from her so strongly I'm almost surprised not to see actual storm clouds, but for once it doesn't faze me.

Anyway, there aren't any rules to say we can't take our lunch breaks in the shop. Or that we can't take them with customers. Or that those customers can't buy our lunches for us and help us make characters for Saturday's LARP.

(I do feel a little guilty about letting Daenerys pay for lunch, but she insisted.)

"Thanks," Daenerys says.

"You're welcome," I reply. "Shae's going to bring the food over in a minute." I hesitate for a moment. "Are you sure I can't pay you back for lunch? I mean, you're already giving up your time to help me. I should be buying *you* lunch."

"Nonsense," she says firmly. "It's my treat. I insist." She leans in and lowers her voice. "You already said you wouldn't normally buy your lunch from here and, frankly, I can see why. It's not the best, or the cheapest. You're just lucky the coffee and the company are so good, or you might end up losing my custom."

"I'd hate to lose you," I blurt out, and then blush when I realise how that must sound. "As a customer, I mean," I clarify.

"Just a customer? Is that all I am to you?" For a moment, my mind whites out with panic, with the fear that I've said something wrong, messed everything up, spoiled things. But then I register that her eyes are twinkling with amusement, with humour. She puts a hand to her brow mock-dramatically, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards slightly.

She's joking.

Of course she's joking, but maybe...

Maybe.

Without really consciously deciding to speak, I find myself asking: "How about a friend?"

I almost blush at my boldness, but Daenerys just nods and smiles.

"That's better. Friends." We're friends? We're friends! (If she really means it. If I don't say something wrong and drive her away. If. If. If.) She takes a sip of coffee, and then sits up straighter in her chair, her demeanour becoming business-like. Not that she was actually slouching, of course. She really does have excellent posture. (Unlike me.) "So, do you know what kind of character you want to play?"

I nod, hoping I don't look as shy as I feel.

(I may have spent some time looking through the information on the roleplaying game society's website. I... may possibly have done that as soon as I got back from Daenerys' that same night. Even though it was ridiculous o' clock in the morning and I had nine 'o clock lectures the next day.)

(I... may have been somewhat zombie-like the next day.)

"I have some ideas." I flip back a couple of pages in my pad, glancing over my notes. "Let's see... A former noblewoman seeking revenge on the people who destroyed her family. Or maybe she just chose a life of adventure in order to escape an arranged marriage. I haven't decided yet. But she's definitely turned her back on noble society to become an adventurer, whatever her reasons."

"Okay, that's a good start." She nods encouragingly, but I can't help worrying that she secretly thinks the idea is stupid. "Did you have a particular character class in mind?"

"I was thinking some kind of magic user." Because I don't think that swinging swords is really my forte, somehow. (And I'm very deliberately not thinking about Sunday, or I'll start to panic.) "There seem to be a few different types, though, and I'm not entirely sure how different they'd be to play."

"Okay, let's start there then. There are two kinds of magic in the game setting: divine and arcane. The differences between them are..."

Much to my surprise, putting together my character actually doesn't take that long at all. There are a few times when I struggle to make a decision, but with a few patient questions and suggestions, Daenerys usually manages to get me back on track. Far sooner than I expected, I am in proud possession of my very first LARP character.

I could almost clap my hands in glee.

Daenerys looks up at me with a smile.

"Okay, I think we're done. Are you happy with that? No changes you want to make?"

I quickly scan through the short document.

"It looks fine to me."

"Great! I'll send it to the GMs to look over. I can't imagine they'll have any problems with it, though, so on Saturday you should be pretty much good to go." She types briefly. "There. I've copied you in on the e-mail."

"Thanks," I say, all of a sudden feeling a little overwhelmed. This is actually happening. It's actually starting to feel like more than just an academic exercise. On Saturday, for a few hours at least, I'm going to be someone else entirely. Timid Sansa Stark will become the high mage Alanna Stone, bold adventurer.

I can't wait.

* * *

"So, you have a busy weekend planned," Shae says, conversationally.

"Apparently," I agree, trying to hide the way my heart leaps and then lurches in my chest at the thought of Saturday and Sunday, respectively.

She studies me for a moment, and then glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers. I follow her lead, but there's no one nearby. Ygritte's sprawled on one of the sofas chatting to customers. Asha's in the back arguing with Mr Baelish. No one's waiting to be served right now. It's just the two of us behind the counter.

"Asha is in a foul mood today," she says carefully, keeping her voice low.

"I noticed," I mutter, trying not to cringe.

"I don't know..." She trails off mid-sentence, and then starts again. "I can speak with her if you want," she says.

I look at her, a little nonplussed.

"What about?"

"About having a temper tantrum when life doesn't immediately conform to her whims. About dragging you off to her silly re-enactment club whether or not you actually want to go. She needs to learn that she can't just bully people like that."

I think about that for a moment, about Shae confronting Asha on my behalf, and cold needles prickle their way over my skin.

"No, that's okay," I say hurriedly. "I'm fine. A re-enactment meeting sounds quite interesting, actually."

"Swinging swords around with a bunch of sweaty men in armour? Really?" Shae sounds sceptical.

"Well, maybe not that part so much. But the rest of it. The crafting and the costumes and the actual re-enactment parts."

"Hmm," she says, noncommittally. "Well, it's your weekend." She half-heartedly starts straightening the display of chocolates and biscuits, but a few moments later she stops and turns to me, leaning in close. "Listen," she says. "I know it's difficult not to get dragged into the drama sometimes, but you do not want to get stuck between Asha and Daenerys if you can help it. As you've undoubtedly noticed, the two of them have..." She grimaces. "Issues with each other."

I knew it!

I knew there was more to their story than a picky customer and an impatient barista. Or even debating opponents. Despite the way my stomach roils at the thought of yet more conflict, I can't help feeling a frisson of excitement in anticipation of finally getting the truth.

Except that Shae seems to have finished speaking, and I'm *still* hardly any wiser than I was before.

I give her a moment or two to see if she's going to say anything else, but she doesn't. I give into temptation and prompt her gently by asking:

"Issues?"

She shrugs.

"Strong personalities, quick tempers, opposing moral and political viewpoints and enough bloody-minded stubbornness to sink a battleship. As I said: issues."

That's not an answer. It's an evasion.

"But surely there's more to it than a simple personality clash?" I persist.

I can't let this go when the possibility of enlightenment is being dangled in front of me so temptingly. I just can't. I look pleadingly at Shae, hoping that she'll take pity on me.

With a heavy sigh, she leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"They had kind of a... thing."

"A thing?" I whisper back, puzzled, but then the penny drops and I just stare at Shae, utterly pole-axed. "You mean, they had a *relationship*?"

And I thought Daenerys and Doreah were brain-breaking. Daenerys and *Asha*, though? I can't even begin to picture how that would work. My mind just rebels outright. Dimly, I become aware that Shae is speaking.

"-to Sansa, come in Sansa. Are you in there?"

She taps one finger lightly on my forehead, and I jump a little, blinking the world back into focus.

"Yes, fine, sorry," I mutter distractedly. I shake my head and make myself take a deep, calming breath. It doesn't really help. "I'm just a little... I don't... Wow."

Her gaze softens, and her lips quirk in a small, wry smile.

"Hard to believe, right?"

I nod vigorously.

"What- How- When *was* this? Was it recently?"

"It was when they were both first years, and that's pretty much all I know. Aside from the fact that it ended badly."

Well, duh.

I figured that part out all on my own.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Because it explains so much.

Shae gives a liquid, expressive shrug.

"It's not really our business, is it? And can you imagine how Asha would react if she caught us gossiping about her?"

I... can. It's not pretty. Which raises another question.

"So, why tell me now?"

She sighs heavily.

"Because it looks like you've gone and landed yourself squarely in the middle of their *issues*. I thought you should probably know the context before they start fighting over you like a chew toy."

"But they're not fighting..."

My protest trails off mid-sentence when Shae arches an eyebrow at me.

"Tell me again what you're doing on Sunday and why."

Okay, maybe she has a point. I... don't know how I feel about that. Nervous, probably.

(Excited, maybe. No one's ever fought over me before.)

(No one's ever thought I was worth fighting for.)

"Anyway," she continues, when she's satisfied she's made her point. "You didn't hear any of this from me, okay?"

"Okay," I echo faintly, still trying to process all of this.

What kind of a minefield have I managed to step into here?

And why I am I suddenly feeling inspired to write?

* * *

"Hi Sansa."

"Hello Reza."

We smile awkwardly at each other.

"So, um..." He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze bouncing around the mostly empty shop before coming back to rest on me. "I was wondering: do you have a minute to talk?"

"Um..." I echo, stupidly.

I check the order board, but his slip is the only one on there. As I try to think of some excuse, Ygritte - who is eavesdropping shamelessly - leans over and grins slyly at me.

"Isn't it time for your break, Sansa?"

"But- But Shae..."

She's not back from her break yet, and we're supposed to stagger them so that only one of us is out at once. But Ygritte casually waves my half-formed objection away.

"She'll be back soon. Anyway, we're just about into the dead zone. I can hold the fort out here for a bit. You two run along and *talk*."

She winks suggestively at me, not even bothering to try to hide the action from Reza. My face immediately lights up like bonfire night, and I wish the ground would open up right now and swallow me whole. Reza shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" he asks.

I should say no. I'm going to say no, but Ygritte jumps in before I can make my throat release the words.

"What a gentleman!" she exclaims, nudging me. "It's a large mocha, right Sansa?"

An image flashes into my head: Daenerys licking whipped cream off one delicate finger. Despite everything, despite this utterly, absolutely, ridiculously awkward situation unfolding around me, my mouth starts to water a little.

"Medium, but with whipped cream, please," I say, resigned to the fact that it's going to be easier to accept than not. I make myself look up at Reza, plastering something that I hope is a suitably gracious smile on my face. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, smiling back with what looks like relief.

Ygritte practically shoves me out from behind the counter.

"I'll ring this up and make the drinks. You go and get ready. That way you can get to *talking* that much sooner."

"Thank you," I mutter, trying not to cringe visibly. "I'll be back in a minute, Reza."

With that, I flee.

I lock myself in the toilet, but it takes a few moments before I can catch my breath and focus on stopping my heart racing like a terrified rabbit.

I can do this. I can.

But what if he asks me out again? What if he asks me to come back to archery next week? What if..? What if..?

(What if he gets angry with me, and there's no one else around?)

No. It's going to be fine. Polite and firm, that's the ticket. I can do polite and firm.

I bet Daenerys can do it.

I bet Alanna Stone can do it.

I guess I'm just going to have to try my best.

Anyway. I can't hide in here forever.

Time to get this over with.

* * *

"How's your mocha?" Reza asks suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. We're sitting on a bench in the town centre, a couple of streets over from the coffee shop, watching the people walk by.

"It's good, thank you." I take a sip, savouring the warmth and sweetness of the drink. Mainly the warmth. It's actually a little chilly out here, but I'm not about to suggest that we move back inside. The last thing I want to do is to have this conversation with Ygritte smirking at me over Reza's shoulder. "How's your latte?" I ask, politely.

"It's good." He shrugs, and then suddenly smiles. "Not as good as when you make it, though."

"Thanks," I say, managing to smile back at him. At least, I hope it looks like a smile.

Silence falls again.

"So," he says, another couple of sips later. "Archery was... interesting."

I grimace instinctively, and then glance up to see if he's noticed. From the rueful expression on his face, I'm guessing that he has.

"Interesting. Yes," I mutter.

That's certainly one word for it. Awkward. That's another. Like when it became clear that one of the people there was assuming that Reza and I were *together*. Humiliating would be another good word. Like when I could barely draw even one of the lightest bows. Or how about outright terrifying.

"You know," he muses thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever seen that happen before. Or even heard about such a thing happening. I mean, what are the odds? The arrow missing the target completely, hitting the post holding up the net that's supposed to catch it, bouncing back up the range, ricocheting off the gallery railing and landing right at your feet!" He shakes his head, saluting me with his cup. "Wow."

"Don't remind me," I say, trying not to shudder.

"Hey, I'm sorry." He immediately sounds contrite. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. It was just a freak accident, that's all. Could've happened to anybody. Really."

I appreciate what he's trying to do, but it's not helping. It doesn't matter what he says, or how he tries to pass it off as 'just one of those things,' I know I made a complete fool of myself. My face burns just remembering it. I think about going back next week, about facing all those people, and it feels like I just shrivel inside. It's that feeling - that queasy, vertiginous pressure in my stomach - that actually gives me the courage to draw breath and speak.

"I don't... I'm not sure archery is for me."

"Are you sure? I mean, that was only your first time. And it really was a freak accident. I'm sure nothing like that will happen again. Really."

Even with the memories of Wednesday scalding my mind, I still feel the urge to acquiesce. But... But... (But what would Daenerys say if I told her I'd gone along out of politeness (fear) not once, but twice? She'd think I was pathetic and weak.)

(And she'd be right.)

I can't. I just can't.

"I'm sure." I make myself look up and meet Reza's gaze, even though my head feels as heavy as a rock. "It's not for me. Sorry."

"No need to apologise," he says quickly. "I just thought - hoped - you'd enjoy it, that's all. I'm sorry if I was too pushy." He gives me a rueful, lopsided smile. "Thank you for at least giving it a try."

"That's alright."

I thought I'd feel better after getting this out of the way, but I don't. Unease still sits like a stone in my stomach, weighing me down. The silence stretches like an elastic band, tension increasing to breaking point, like something's going to snap. I try to think of something else to say, but my mind goes blank.

I take another sip of my cooling mocha and stare blindly at the passers-by, searching for inspiration.

I jump a little as Reza clears his throat.

"Look, Sansa," he says, and then hesitates. "I don't... I mean, you know I like you, don't you?"

"Um," I practically whisper as my mind spins its wheels like a panicking hamster. "I guess."

I feel him shift on the bench and I know he's turned to look at me. I keep my eyes down and drink my mocha. Movement in my peripheral vision makes me jump and I turn to see him leaning forward, reaching out a hand towards me. I flinch involuntarily, almost flinging my cup aside, juggling it desperately as I try not to spill it over the pair of us. By the time I've wrestled it back under control, Reza has scooted all the way over to the other side of the bench, about as far away from me as it's possible to get without standing up, and is looking utterly, thoroughly miserable.

"Sorry," we both say, almost speaking in unison. We look at each other.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says tentatively. He attempts a smile, but it's a pale and sickly shadow of his usual cheer. "Good reflexes there, though."

"Thanks." I don't try to smile back. I think mine would come out looking even worse than his. "I'm just glad I didn't spill it on us."

("What did you *do*, you stupid cow? This was a new jacket! You're such a bloody klutz, Sansa.")

I shiver a little.

It must be the cold. It is autumn, after all.

"Do I..." He trails off, and then takes a deep breath and starts again. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No, of course not," I hasten to reassure him, to show that I'm not as much of a freak as I must seem right now. "I'm just... just easily startled, I guess."

"It's not just that, though. You rushed off after the archery competition like the place was on fire."

"I had to get to work."

"And you practically vanished without a trace after Wednesday's practice."

"I was embarrassed. And I had to work."

"And then there's now."

"I..."

I choke on my own words. What can I say to that that wouldn't offend him, or be an outright lie? I am uncomfortable right now, and I'm not exactly doing a great job of hiding it. He's not blind.

But he doesn't seem angry, either.

No, he seems... upset?

"I know I can be a bit full-on sometimes," he says quietly. "I don't mean any harm by it. I just..." He takes a deep breath, and his next words come out in a rush. "I just really like you. You're smart, you're pretty and you can recognise my geeky Princess Bride quotes. Plus, you make great coffee." He seems to deflate a little. "But I can take no for an answer. I won't... won't pursue you or anything if you don't want me to. I won't even talk to you any more if you'd rather I didn't. Although I'd rather not stop coming to Hot Coffee, if you don't mind. You really do serve great coffee, and my friends hang out there and-" He breaks off and takes another deep breath. "Sorry. I tend to talk when I'm nervous." Another sickly smile. "You've probably noticed that already. Sorry." He pauses, looking at me expectantly, but I can't seem to make myself speak. I can't even think of the right words. After a few moments, his face falls. "Sorry," he says again. "I... guess I'll just go then. Sorry. Bye."

He gets up and starts to walk slowly away.

My first feeling is one of overwhelming relief.

I don't have to worry about this anymore. I don't have to try to think of a way to turn him down without making him angry.

I don't have to deal with this at all.

And then I register the way his shoulders are drooping; the way his steps - normally so light and quick - have become a slow, dejected trudge.

And I feel kind of... conflicted.

He's not a bad guy, after all. And I do kind of like him, when he's not making me feel so nervous.

I can't just let him leave like this.

"Reza, wait," I call out before I can change my mind.

He turns to look at me with such hope in his eyes that it almost makes me feel sick, and I know I'm going to have to choose my next words very carefully indeed.

"I don't... I'm sorry, but I don't like you the way that you like me." His hope visibly gutters and dies, the sight of that cutting me to the bone, but I make myself push onwards. (What would Daenerys do? What would Alanna do?) "But I do like you as... as a friend. You can... You don't have to stop talking to me. Or coming to Hot Coffee." I attempt a smile, but have no idea how it actually turns out. "Anyway, Asha would kill me for driving away a customer."

For a heart-stopping moment, I have absolutely no idea how he's going to react. But then he smiles - a real smile, this time - and I start to let myself hope that this is going to turn out okay.

"Friends, then?" he asks softly, holding out a hand.

"Friends," I echo, using all my willpower to accept the handshake, rather than flinching away from the contact.

(I'm still relieved when he lets me go.)

"Do you want me to walk you back to the coffee shop?" he offers.

"No, thank you. That's okay," I say back, plastering what I hope is a cheerful smile across my face. "I have some errands to run, and I don't want to keep you."

I stand up, and he seems to take the hint.

"Until next time, then," he says.

"Next time," I agree.

It takes the last of my willpower, but I manage not to bolt until he's out of sight.

Things get a little blurry after that.

Flashes of people, voices, too many open spaces.

Need to find somewhere private.

There: public toilets. They'll do.

They'll have to.

Distantly, I realise that I'm no longer holding the remainder of my mocha. I must have dumped it in a rubbish bin en route. At least, I hope I did. I'd feel really bad if I'd inadvertently become a litterbug.

But then I'm locking the door of the cubicle behind me, doubling over with the sudden cramping in my gut.

The mocha doesn't taste nearly so good coming back up.

Sometime later, I flush the toilet, listening to make sure there's no one else out there before I creep out and examine myself in the mirror.

The damage isn't too bad this time. (It's been worse. It's been much worse.)

Eyes slightly red, but nothing that some cold water won't fix. Nothing caught in my hair this time - I guess I must have remembered to hold it back. I wash my hands and face, rinse my mouth as best as I can, and then decide to blow a couple of quid on one of those little fuzzy-brush things from the dispenser on the wall.

Huh. It really is like chewing gum.

A short while later, I'm all minty-fresh and I feel more or less ready to face the world again.

Not that I really have a choice.

Time to get back to work.

* * *

Author's note: Yes, the archery incident did actually occur whilst I was present. Not to me, thankfully.


	7. Chapter 7

"And you must be the famous Lady Alanna Stone."

I just about have time to wonder if the man before me is roleplaying as Fabio, with that long flowing hair and ruffled shirt, when he catches up one of my hands in his and brings it to his lips. Still holding my hand in a light grip, he bows low enough that I catch a glimpse of Missandei rolling her eyes behind him.

The sight of her helps me shake off my instinctive paralysis, to kick my mind into gear and start wondering frantically: what would Alanna do?

What should *I* do?

"I was not aware that my reputation had preceded me." The words emerge from my mouth in a haughtily icy tone that I don't even recognise as my own voice. Still, the sound of it, the way it feels on my tongue, gives me the strength to stiffen my spine, pull my hand away, and stare down from my full height with a cold little smile. "Perhaps I should be more careful about leaving witnesses in the future."

Oh my god.

Did I really just say that?

Did I really just do that?

My stomach flutters, and I have to suppress the urge to flinch when the man straightens, but I also feel a strange excitement start to build within me.

I can do this.

I *can* do this.

The Fabio-alike laughs, the sound loud, hearty and, seemingly, genuine. (Not that 'seems' means anything. Not necessarily. After all, even monsters can laugh.)

"I can see that you are going to be an interesting addition to our merry band of adventurers," he purrs, and that's a word I would never have thought to apply to a man before. "But please, I have been most remiss in my manners. Captain Alessandro Naharis, at your service."

He bows again, flinging his cloak back with a flourish that shows off the fact that he's carrying twin curved swords.

I arch an eyebrow, resting one hand on my hip.

"And what manner of service is it that you offer, Captain?"

His smile widens, giving his face a distinctly predatory aspect, and suddenly my self-assurance withers and dies as if it never even existed.

Was I flirting with him? I was... kind of flirting with him. I think.

He was definitely flirting with me.

I take an uncertain step backwards, trying to find my way back into Alanna's head, but that easy confidence eludes me.

I hear footsteps behind me, and then a voice.

"I might have known I'd find you fluttering around our newest member, Alessandro."

Daenerys! No, Nymeria; Chosen of Justice. Her voice is low and amused, but there's an edge to it, and I'm really not sure if that's in or out of character.

In character, I assume. After all, Alanna and Nymeria knew each other, once upon a time, when Alanna was a student at the Academy, and Nymeria was a temple novice. That's the back story we'd worked out, anyway. Nymeria is the one who talked Alanna into joining forces with this group. (It seemed appropriate, given that Daenerys recruited me.)

Alessandro spreads his hands modestly.

"I am merely a man, my lady," he says, smiling. "Can I help it if I am drawn to beauty like a moth to a flame?"

Behind him, Missandei (what *is* her character name? I know it begins with M...) rolls her eyes so hard I'm almost surprised they don't roll right out of her head, grimacing like she's sucking on something sour. I stifle a giggle.

And suddenly, I'm alright again.

Nymeria laughs.

"Be careful with this one, Alessandro. Lady Alanna is not some simpering girl like the ones who hang off your cloak wherever we go. She is my *friend*." She pauses to emphasise the word, and I draw myself up straight again, proudly. "And you know I have no patience for milksops."

"Indeed, my lady," he says, seemingly unfazed by either of us. (More's the pity.) "And *you* know my thoughts on the potency of danger as a spice." He turns his attention back to me. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And now, if the both of you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to before we depart."

And with another bow, another flourish of his cloak, Captain Alessandro Naharis takes his leave.

I blink.

"Is he always like that?" I ask quietly, not sure if I'm asking as Sansa or as Alanna.

Nymeria chuckles ruefully.

"Worse, I fear," she says, confidingly. "The man is an incorrigible flirt. Do not dismiss him, though. Despite his lightness of manner, he is a demon on the battlefield."

I arch an eyebrow.

"Literally?" I ask, as if it's a matter of academic interest.

"Ah, no. I meant figuratively, of course." She laughs softly, her voice taking on a teasing note. "I see that I shall have to remember to watch my words with you, old friend. You always did take me to task for speaking loosely." She straightens, and with her next words she's back to being Daenerys again. "Out of character, I know you haven't been introduced to the player yet, but that's Daario, another one of the project committee members." She smiles ruefully. "He's kind of a flirt in real life as well, but he's not quite so over the top about it as when he's being Alessandro. Just tell him to back off if he's being a pain, though."

"Oh," I say, filing that information away.

"Anyway," Daenerys says. "Looks like the GMs have finished their little discussion. I think the game's about to start."

"Great!" For once it's excitement, not nervousness, that makes my heart race and my breath quicken. Well, okay, I'm still nervous. (What if I mess this up? What if I make a complete fool of myself? What if I do something so stupid I end up getting kicked out of the group during my very first game?) But mostly I'm just excited.

And happy.

"Thank you for inviting me, Daenerys," I say, the words tumbling out all in a rush. "I'm really looking forward to this."

"Good," she says, smiling brilliantly. "I'm glad. I hope it lives up to your expectations." She clears her throat. "Now, let us not tarry, Alanna, for a new quest awaits."

"Lead on, then, Nymeria. I will follow, as always."

This is going to be so much fun!

* * *

"And... time out!" Duncan, one of the people running the game, beams round at the lot of us. "That's it for tonight. Great job, guys. It was looking close there for a while, but you managed to pull through in the end. No TPK today!"

There's a ragged chorus of cheers from the players and a couple of exaggerated boos from some of the other GMs.

I lean towards Daenerys.

"What's a TPK?"

"Total party kill," she says. "Which is pretty much what it sounds like."

I blink.

"Does that happen often?"

"No, actually, it's pretty rare. It certainly hasn't happened since I've been playing here, although it's come close a couple of times." She flashes me a grin. "Like tonight."

"Oh." I turn that thought over in my mind. "So we, I mean, our characters could have died?"

I'm actually surprised at the strength of my reaction. I've only played Alanna for a few hours, but I'm already as invested in her fate as I am in any one of my stories. More, even.

I... I don't want her to die.

"Yes, of course," Daenerys says, her matter-of-fact tone drawing me out of my musings. "But the risk is part of the fun."

"I suppose," I reply, but I feel - and sound - highly dubious about the idea.

Daenerys laughs and nudges me companionably.

"Don't worry, I'll keep my favourite high mage safe. I am a knight, after all."

And, just like that, my worry is forgotten.

"Hello ladies," Alessandro, no, *Daario* breaks in. (How on earth am I going to be able to remember character names as well as real names? I just know I'm going to get confused and make a fool of myself.) "The two of you aren't still plotting, are you? Didn't you hear the time out?"

"Just talking, Daario," Daenerys says with a wry smile. "Why, are you worried?"

"Should I be?"

Daenerys turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

"What do you think, Sansa? Should he be?"

I almost freeze, but Alanna is still near the surface of my thoughts, still whispering self-assurance into my ear, and so instead I stand up straight and glance over at him.

"Oh, you might very well think that. I couldn't possibly comment," I murmur, giving what I hope is an enigmatic smile.

Daario laughs good-humouredly.

"Well, I shall keep my own counsel regarding any fear - or lack, thereof - on my part." In a somewhat less formal tone, he continues. "I just came over to say hello to our newest member." He turns his attention fully to me. (Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't help being a little shocked that he can do that when Daenerys is standing right next to me. Even when I'm speaking to him, I can't help but be aware of her presence. She's just that charismatic.) "So, we haven't met out of character yet. I'm Daario."

"Sansa," I manage to murmur, feeling a blush start to creep over my cheeks. I struggle to keep my head up, and not drop my eyes meekly to the ground.

"It's nice to meet you, Sansa."

I half-expect him to bow and kiss my hand again, but he just smiles broadly, his gleaming white teeth standing out against his tanned skin.

"You too," I reply.

"So, did you enjoy the game? Do you think you'll be back next week?"

"I had a great time!" Suddenly, a rush of enthusiasm pushes aside the shyness, and I can talk without having to painfully grind out my words. "I'm definitely going to come back next week. I think I'm going to work on my costume, though. Some of them are really impressive. I really like your cloak. Did you make it yourself?"

"Thank you. I did." He seems pleased. "It's not actually that difficult. I can show you if you like."

"Um, maybe."

And I'm back to uncertainty again, the sensation as familiar as it is unwelcome. I look towards Daenerys, hoping for a lifeline.

She doesn't disappoint me.

"I've heard some of the other new people expressing interest making bits of costume," she says. "And I've been thinking it was about time I updated Nymeria's wardrobe a little. Maybe it's time we held another workshop. I'll send an e-mail around."

Daario purses his lips, but before he can say anything - if he was going to say anything - Jorah steps in front of him.

"That was a little riskier than I would've liked," he says to Daenerys. "Perhaps we should have tried to negotiate."

"They were slavers," Daenerys says, brusquely. "Nymeria doesn't negotiate with slavers. You know that."

"But now we're going to be tripping over assassins all the way to Annwn's Tomb," he points out, his tone eminently reasonable. "And they might have been able to help us track down the mysterious Shadowdancers. It's not like we have an abundance of other leads."

Daario laughs softly.

"But where would be the fun in that?"

Jorah glowers at him, but he only smiles wider.

"Nymeria almost died," Jorah says, his tone clipped.

"But she didn't," Daario points out, shrugging.

"But she could have done. And she still might, since you let those two get away to report to their masters."

Something dangerous glints in Daario's eyes, but his smile stays in place. His next words sound just a little tiny bit sharper.

"Forgive me if I was a *little* busy stopping one of them from taking your head while you lay unconscious in the dirt. I shall, however, be certain to rethink my priorities for next time."

I'm... starting to think this argument might be about more than just LARP tactics.

(For one brief moment I wonder if, like Daenerys and Asha, Jorah and Daario also had a 'Thing' that ended badly, but then I quickly dismiss the idea. I guess, despite what Hollywood, anime and about a bazillion romance novels tell us, sometimes arguing passionately with someone all the time just means you don't like them very much.)

Fortunately, Daenerys steps in before things can get too heated.

"It's done now," she says, firmly. "There's no point arguing about what could have been. Anyway, we have something more important to decide right now." She looks around the group of us still milling around here. "Where to for the post-LARP gathering?"

Everyone immediately starts talking at once. I try to dampen my brief flare of disappointment, telling myself that they all know each other already, some of them for years. I can't expect to be included on my very first time.

But it would have been nice to have the chance to actually chat with Daenerys a little, out of character. And Missandei, too. Maybe even one or two of the others.

Oh well. Maybe when I've been to a few more games.

(Anyway, since when am I actively eager to hang out in a crowd? Normally, I start feeling the urge to flee when confronted by groups of more than three or four people. This is different, though.)

(Maybe the trick to feeling at ease in a crowd of people is to first spend a few hours with them fighting other people pretending to be monsters.)

"I forgot to mention it before, but it's something of a tradition to congregate at someone's house after a LARP," Daenerys explains. "We generally eat junk food and chat. Sometimes we watch a film." I nod, trying not to look too disappointed. Much to my surprise, though, her next words aren't a goodbye. Instead, she continues with: "You're more than welcome to join us."

The invitation is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to process it.

"I'd love to," I say quickly, when I manage to kick my brain into gear. (God, I hope she doesn't think I'm completely gormless.) "But I don't want to intrude."

"The more the merrier," she says, smiling.

"It'll be a relief to have someone sensible to talk to," Missandei says quietly, from beside me.

I hadn't even noticed her there. She's really good at fading into the background. Plus, I was focusing on (Daenerys) trying to make out what Daenerys was saying through the rather noisy debate.

When Missandei's words sink in (she thinks I'm sensible?) I give her a shy smile.

"Are you saying that the rest of us aren't sensible?" Daenerys asks Missandei, laughing a little.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." Missandei's tone is completely deadpan, but her eyes are sparkling.

"Well... Okay. Fine." Daenerys smiles ruefully. "I can't argue with that. And, speaking of arguments..."

She gestures to the rest of the group, who don't seem to have managed to come to anything resembling agreement on where to go now. It looks like Jorah and Daario are almost on the brink of coming to blows.

"Not our place this week," Missandei tells Daenerys, her voice low but firm. "I'm not spending tomorrow cleaning up after them again."

"I'd help," Daenerys protests.

"You'd mean to, certainly. But Doreah will be coming round." I guess that means that Dor doesn't actually live with them. I really hadn't been sure. "And you know she'll expect to have all of your attention, to make up for you 'abandoning' her this evening. So it would fall to me. And I'm not doing it."

Wow. That's the most I've ever heard her say in one go. I guess this is something she feels strongly about.

She raises an eyebrow at Daenerys, who sighs.

"I... would like to argue with that."

"But you can't."

"No. No, I can't. Fine, not our place." She frowns. "Where, then?"

We look at each other, the on-going argument - mainly between Jorah and Daario - seeming loud all of a sudden. The gist of it seems to be that neither of them wants to have to walk 'all the way back' from the other's house afterwards.

(A part of me wants to scoff at them for being wimps. They're talking about less than an hour! We've just been traipsing around the lake for at least four times that long.)

(I quickly shove stifle that little voice before it does something unfortunate, like actually come out of my mouth.)

A thought occurs to me. I push it away, then bring it back and study it.

That... could work. And I don't mind cleaning up a little mess. It's not likely to be that bad, anyway.

"Um, we could use my place," I offer, not quite able to believe I'm saying this. "One of my housemates is at her boyfriend's, one's away visiting her family and the other's out clubbing, so we're not going to disturb anyone."

"And you live on City Road, don't you?"

"Yes," I say, nodding, a little startled at the fact that she even remembered that. "Just a ten minute walk away."

"Great!" She smiles at me, and those little doubting voices at the back of my mind fall silent. This is a good idea. It is. "Thanks Sansa, you're a lifesaver." She turns to the rest of the group, raising her voice to make herself heard over the on-going argument. "Hey guys, Sansa's got a suggestion..."

"I hope you know what you're letting yourself in for," Missandei murmurs next to me.

I glance over at her, not sure how to take that remark, but she's wearing her enigmatic expression again and it leaves me none the wiser. But she's probably talking about the mess.

I give her I small smile.

"So do I."

* * *

How can a group of people create so much chaos? They were only *here* a few hours. I swear this stuff has multiplied overnight.

I rush around trying to clean up the mess as best as I can. I can totally see why Missandei didn't want to do this twice in one week. It's not that bad, I guess - it mostly just involves going around with a black bin bag, or several - but it would get pretty tedious after a while.

I check my watch and curse mentally. I'm running late.

Where does the time go? I set my alarm for seven-thirty just so this wouldn't happen, even though it's a Sunday morning and I didn't get to bed until the small hours.

Unfortunately, I didn't quite make it out of bed when the alarm went off, which is part of the problem. The other part of the problem is that tidying up is taking way longer than I thought it would.

Note to self: next time, I'll deal with it *before* I go to bed, no matter how tired I am.

(I guess I'm already assuming that there'll be a next time.)

In a sudden burst of productivity, I finish the tidying and set down to work on my essay, conscious of the fact that the dreaded hour is creeping ever nearer. Eventually, my doom is upon me and I know I can't ignore it any longer.

It's time to call my mother.

* * *

"Yes, I know I'm here to study," I say, hating the plaintive, almost whining note in my voice. "But staying out late one night a week isn't going to do me any harm."

I wish I'd never said anything. But I thought she'd be pleased that I've joined a club, that I'm actually making friends here rather than spending all my time at university, home or Hot Coffee.

Maybe I should have known better.

"Hmm," she says, and I can practically feel the weight of judgement in the sound. The implied: 'I know you're making a mistake, but I'm just going to let you go ahead and fall on your face. And then I'm going to say I told you so.' Maybe that's a lot to read into one little not-quite-word, but it has the weight of experience behind it.

The weight of long, long experience.

"What did you call this new hobby of yours again? Lop?"

I roll my eyes, glad she can't see me.

"It's LARP, Mum. L-A-R-P. It stands for live-action role-play."

"Hmm," she says again. "And you're sure it's not a bit, well, weird? I mean, you read all these things online about roleplaying and dungeons and whatnot. Impressionable young girls being led astray. I worry about you, Sansa, away from home for the first time. You're just so young and innocent."

The unspoken message being, of course, that she wants me to stay that way.

"*No*," I say, emphatically, resisting the sudden urge to hurl the phone across the room. "It's nothing like that. I *told* you. It's a bit like improvisational theatre."

"So, there's an audience?"

"No, but... Okay, maybe it's more like interactive storytelling."

"Like one of those choose-your-own adventure books you used to read? It sounds a bit childish if you ask me."

Make up your mind, Mum! Is it some seedy gateway into a dark life of god knows what, or is it a children's game? Which is it?

Fortunately, I manage to refrain from saying that that out loud. Probably just as well - it would only bring about another lecture.

She only wants to make sure that I'm okay. She worries about me. Isn't a mother allowed to worry about her daughter now? And so on, and so on. All delivered in a slightly hurt tone that clearly lets me know what a terrible, terrible daughter I am for objecting to her giving me the third degree regarding every single aspect of my life.

"Well, anyway, I had a lot of fun, and I'm definitely going to go back next week," I say firmly, hoping that will be the end of it.

"Just as long as it doesn't interfere with your studies."

"I'll make sure it doesn't, don't worry. Actually, that reminds me: I got ninety-three per cent on my last lab report."

"Well done," she says, sounding pleased. "Just make sure you keep that up."

No, she couldn't possibly stop after 'well done,' could she? She just had to add that last little admonishment.

"I'll try my best."

I tell myself that she means well. She really does mean well. She does.

It doesn't help.

Time for a change of subject.

"So," I say brightly. "How are the repairs coming along?"

"Expensively," she sighs. "Sometimes it seems like whenever we fix one problem something else goes wrong immediately afterwards." I hear the rustle of papers, and I know that she's looking over the accounts again, probably seated at (Dad's) her desk, the reading glasses she won't admit to needing sliding down her nose.

Suddenly I miss my family, and Winterfell, so strongly that it almost hurts.

"I guess that's the problem with living in a country pile," I say, smiling a little.

"That's what your father used to say," she says softly.

"I know."

Neither of us speaks for a moment or two, both lost in our own thoughts. I take a deep breath. Mum clears her throat.

"Did I tell you what Rob's gone and done now?" she says, composed once more.

"No, Mum. What's he done?"

"He's actually put together *brochures* for this retreat idea of his!"

She sounds so utterly scandalised that I can't help laughing a little.

"Not *brochures*," I say, mimicking her tone.

"I know! I've sent you a copy, so you can see for yourself what's going through his head. Maybe you can help me talk some sense into him."

"I'll look through them when they get here," I say, carefully noncommittal.

"Thank you, Sansa. I knew I could rely on you."

There she goes again, hearing exactly what she wants to hear. I'm certainly not going to correct her, though. It's much easier that way.

"Is Rob around at the moment?"

"No, he's off gallivanting with some friends at the moment. He's due back sometime today, but I don't know exactly when."

"What about Bran and Arya?"

"Riding and fencing lessons, respectively."

"Oh, right. I forgot."

I don't ask about Jon, even though it's been a little while since I've heard from him. Mum doesn't like to think about my half-brother, especially since Dad...

Especially now.

"I'll tell them you called," Mum says. "Maybe you could call again later when they're back? I know they'd like to speak to you."

"I will if I can," I say cautiously. "But I'm going out in a bit, and I'm not sure what time I'll be back."

"On a Sunday?" she says, sounding surprised. "Where are you off to?"

I face-palm silently.

Why oh why did I have to open my big mouth? I suppose I could lie, say I'm working a shift at the coffee shop today. But... I'm not going to do that.

I settle myself more comfortably on my bed. I have the feeling I'm going to be here a while.

"Have you ever heard of historical re-enactment?"


	8. Chapter 8

The knock comes promptly at noon. It's not the sound of someone gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door. Rather, it's a thunderous report that seems like it should rattle the door in its frame, making me leap off the sofa like a startled rabbit. Even if I wasn't expecting Asha, I would have guessed that it was her.

Or maybe a passing giant.

I straighten my top (a nervous gesture; I should probably try to stop doing it in future) and answer the door.

Asha doesn't bother with anything as superfluous as a greeting. She just looks me up and down and gives a grudging nod of approval.

"You'll do," she says gruffly, then flashes a brief, unexpected grin. "I'm almost surprised you even own a tracksuit."

"Of course I do," I say, stung into unusual asperity by her dismissive words.

She just grunts.

"Ready to go?" she asks laconically.

"I just need to put my shoes on and grab my stuff. Do you want to come in a minute?"

"Thanks."

I'm conscious of her looming presence as I sit down to tie my trainers. She's looking around the room, blatantly scrutinising everything in sight.

Judging it, probably.

"I wouldn't have thought that was your kind of decor," she observes, nodding towards the 3-D anatomy posters on the wall.

"One of my housemates is a medical student," I explain. "She says it helps her to have them there." Looming over anyone who sits on the sofa. "She sometimes has a full model skeleton on display, but she tends to move that into her room when she's not here."

I stand up and slip on my jacket and backpack.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"You've got a bottle of water?"

"A full litre," I confirm.

"Then let's go."

She strides forth without so much as a backwards glance. As I close the door behind us and hurry to catch up, I wonder again: what have I let myself in for?

* * *

The practice ground turns out to be a short bus ride away. The first couple of minutes pass in awkward silence, and I'm just starting to wonder if I should try to make conversation (or if it would be terribly rude of me just to pull out my book and start reading) when Asha's phone rings.

Saved by the bell.

She glances at the display and rolls her eyes.

"What do you want, Theon?" she barks by way of greeting.

I quickly look away, trying to at least give her the illusion of privacy. Even if the illusion is all it is. I mean, I'm sitting right next to her, and she isn't really making any effort to keep her voice down.

(Anyway, it's not eavesdropping if I can't help overhearing.)

Theon... Why does that name seem familiar?

Whoever he is, the 'conversation' between them is clearly an argument, and - from the occasional mention of terms like 'catch limits' and 'trawlers' - it's apparently regarding her family's fishing business. Sounds like Asha and this Theon person are having some kind of disagreement about the way they do things. Or will do things?

It seems to be quite a serious disagreement, judging by the way Asha turning the air blue with a stream of profanity that makes me blush to hear it.

She's very inventive.

"Well, fuck you too!" she spits out, almost disappointingly (such an ordinary epithet after all the others) and then hangs up, stabbing the disconnect icon as though she's trying to put her finger through the screen. She glowers at the phone for a moment before shoving it back in her pocket.

The silence stretches even more awkwardly than before the phone call. I glance over at her, startled to find myself meeting her gaze.

"My brother," she mutters, as if in explanation.

Not that Asha Greyjoy ever explains herself. Not ever.

But at least now I know why the same sounded familiar. Mystery solved.

I should probably just let the silence linger, uncomfortable though it is. Instead, though, I find myself actually attempting to offer sympathy.

"Dealing with family can be tough, sometimes," I murmur.

"Ha! You're not wrong there, Stark. Can't live with 'em, can't just slaughter the whole damn lot of 'em."

Not *quite* how I would have put it, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.

"It seems to be a little easier since I moved away," I offer.

Even if I haven't actually moved all that far.

But if only I can persuade my mother to loosen her death grip on the reins a little, maybe it'll get easier still. Maybe I'll actually start looking forward to her phone calls, rather than mostly seeing them as just another chore.

"Yeah, well, Theon's just as much of a prick as he ever was. All the distance in the world won't help that."

"Is he older or younger?"

Part of me can't quite believe that I'm apparently having a relatively normal, relatively civil conversation with Asha. I wouldn't say she's a different person outside the coffee shop, exactly, but I couldn't imagine having this discussion there. I certainly don't think I'd be asking all these questions about something other than her boat-building project.

"Younger by a couple of years. Finished A-levels and getting in some work experience before going off to university next year." She shakes her head, pulling a disgusted face. "Less than a year in, and he already thinks he knows the family trade better than I do. Arrogant git."

"I see."

"He wants us to *diversify* and *modernise*," she spits out, scowling like the words leave a nasty taste in her mouth.

"And that's... bad?" I ask cautiously.

I still can't quite believe she's actually answering my questions, rather than just telling me to f... to go away. I half-wonder if I should stop asking, stop pushing, but I know there's no way my curiosity is going to let me do any such thing.

"Some modernisation is inevitable," she admits grudgingly. "Especially technologically. We've got to be able to compete in today's market, after all. But we have traditions. We have *values*. We can't just toss all that by the wayside just because things get a little tough! We're *Greyjoys*. That name should stand for something."

"Right," I say, not really knowing how I'm supposed to respond to that.

Or even if I'm supposed to respond. But she's looking at me now, studying me with a direct, scrutinising stare that makes me want to duck my head and hide behind my hair.

I don't like being looked at.

(Well, maybe unless it's Daenerys doing the looking.)

"You understand, don't you?" she says, suddenly. "I mean, you're a Stark of Winterfell. You have a history. You have *roots*. Not like these Johnny-come-latelies who crow about back their family tree as far back four whole generations. Or businesses who splash 'Established in 1952' all over their signs like it actually means something. Pah!"

"I guess."

But I think I do understand what she means. And I sort of agree with some of it, but not all. I mean, new doesn't mean bad. And maybe some things *should* be changed once in a while.

Not that I'm going to say that to her, of course.

I remember... I remember Dad showing me the Weirwood grove for the first time, the memory flooding in so suddenly and so vividly that I can almost feel the bitter Autumn wind nipping at my cheeks, see the bright pink of my new little wellingtons disappearing beneath the thick dark mud, smell the rich aroma of old wood and wet leaves.

The Weirwood grove was - still is, I guess - a tangled thicket of trees all grown together, so gnarled and twisted they almost looked like they were staring at me with wizened little faces. I didn't really like it much, honestly. (Maybe I was even a little frightened of them. Maybe.)

(Okay, maybe a lot.)

But he took hold of my hand and he told me... He told me that those trees were older than the house itself. That they'd stood there for long before there was ever a Stark in Winterfell, or even a Winterfell at all, and that they would still be standing long after all of us were gone. (That didn't really lessen their scariness, to be honest.) He said that they symbolised our responsibilities to our family, and to the land. In that order.

That they were a reminder of our heritage.

I miss him so much.

"You daydreaming again, Stark?" Asha's voice cracks the cocoon of memory wide open, and I blink stupidly at her for a moment before I find my voice.

"No, just... Just thinking about my father. What you said about tradition and history reminded me of some of the things he used to say." I take a deep breath, mentally shooing the ghosts away. "I think he would have agreed with you."

At least in part.

"Oh. Well, good." She nods, looking pleased.

Silence wraps itself around us once more, but for some reason it doesn't quite feel so awkward now.

Or maybe that's just my imagination.

In any case, a few minutes later Asha elbows me in the side (ow!) and presses the bell.

"Look sharp, Stark," she says cheerfully. "Time for you to start learning how it's really done."

Oh.

Great.

Sighing inwardly, I drag myself to my feet.

Time to get this over with.

* * *

"Come on, Stark, put some welly into it!" Asha roars from somewhere behind me. "That's not a bouquet you've got in your hand."

"I'm trying!" I pant. My hands are throbbing and my arms feel like limp noodles, but I grit my teeth and swing for the target again, giving it everything I've got left.

It's more than I thought.

Maybe a little too much, actually.

The padded practice sword thunks solidly against the target with a bone-jarring impact, twisting in my grip. I try to tighten my hands on the hilt, trying desperately to hang onto it, but I can't. I just *can't*. It drops to the ground, bouncing once and then laying still. The blade pointing towards me like an accusing finger.

I sigh, letting my arms hang limp for one blessed moment before bending to scoop the thing up.

I'm *glad* you fell in the mud, I tell it silently, irrationally and fervently hating the inanimate object for its role in my abject and on-going humiliation. I *hate* you. I hate *this*!

"What the hell was that?" Asha demands, glowering. Under any other circumstances, that expression might make me grovel and cower and mumble apologies like some kind of simpleton. Now, though, I'm just too exhausted and (pissed off) peeved to be intimidated.

"My hands are tired," I say, hating the plaintive whine in my voice. "I couldn't hold onto it any longer."

She sighs heavily, stepping forward without so much as a by-your-leave and physically adjusting my grip. (It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.)

"Like *this*, Sansa." Wow, she actually used my first name for once. She must be annoyed. "Like I showed you. Now widen your stance and bed your knees a little." I do what she says. She kicks my foot. "No, wider. The way you're standing right now, a stiff breeze could knock you over."

I notice a few of the others standing around and watching, gathering in pairs and small groups to point and mock at the gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

What was I even thinking? Why didn't I just pluck up the courage to tell Asha I wasn't interested when she first dragooned me into this?

Like it was that easy.

Like it's ever that easy.

I'm cold, I'm tired, I hurt and I'm embarrassed. And my misery only deepens as Asha takes me through drill after drill, exercise after exercise until I just want to lay down and *die*.

Maybe of embarrassment.

"Leave the poor girl alone, Asha," one of the bystanders calls out, laughing. I glance over at him, torn between mortification at the fact that my discomfort is so obvious, and thankfulness for his intercession on my behalf.

The speaker turns out to be a short-ish man with black hair and a neatly-sculpted beard. I remember him from Asha's rather perfunctory introduction earlier, but I didn't quite catch his name.

R-something, I think.

"You stay out of this, Renfield," she snaps back. (Renfield? Really? Huh. Still, it's nice to know who it is I'm making a fool of myself in front of.) "It's none of your business."

"That's *Renly*," he says, pointedly. "One of these days you'll get it right." (I'm not sure Renly's much better than Renfield, honestly, but I keep that to myself.) He saunters over, giving me a smile and Asha a very disapproving look. "Let her catch her breath at least," he says, and that sounds like the most wonderful idea in the world right now.

I look at Asha with what I'm sure must be huge, pleading eyes. She sighs loudly.

"Fine. Five minutes. Stretch it out. Drink some water. And give me that sword before you drop it again."

I mutely hold it out and she practically snatches it out of my hands.

Ow.

"You don't have to be so rough."

Bloody hell, did I just say that out loud?

Asha's head whips around towards me, and there's a look of such shock on her face that it would be comical if I wasn't so horrified.

I can feel the apology right there on the tip of my tongue, quickly followed by the urge to hunch in on myself, to make myself as small a target as possible. My stomach flutters and twists like I'm standing on the deck of a boat in rough seas.

But something won't let me give in to my usual cowardice. So I stand there, my spine straight(-ish), looking Asha (more or less) directly in the eyes.

And I say...

Nothing, apparently.

Maybe the apology I *still* want to give voice to has strangled all my other words, leaving me standing here dumb and dumbfounded with everyone *looking* at me, waiting for me to speak up.

I bet Alanna Stone never has this problem.

I try to put myself into her skin, to fill myself with her easy confidence, but she slips through my fingers like smoke, eluding my desperate grasp.

And it's just me standing here. In front of Asha. Who currently has a face like a thundercloud.

Eep.

"Um, I mean my fingers are a little stiff and sore - because I've never really held a sword before, you see, and I'm still not even really sure if I was holding it right - and um, anyway, I couldn't quite open my hands fast enough and you kind of bent my finger back a little bit when you took the sword and it sort of hurt and, um, maybe just make sure I've actually let go of it properly before pulling it away next time?"

Great. Now everyone can add 'gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet *and* babbles idiotically.'

Way to make a great first impression, Sansa.

I brace myself in anticipation of a rant to end all rants, but what happens next is something I could never have predicted.

"I'm... sorry if I hurt you. I'll try to be more careful next time."

Asha looks as shocked to be saying the words - grudging and halting though they are - as I am to be hearing them. It takes a moment before I can shake off my paralysis enough to reply to her.

"It's okay," I say, quickly. "I was probably just being clumsy, anyway." And, feeling rather like I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I take a deep breath and make myself continue. "You know, I'm not really sure this is for me. I mean, I'm not very strong and I clearly don't have any kind of natural aptitude with a sword."

Which I could have told her already, if she'd bothered to ask.

She starts to say something, but Renly interrupts, talking right over her.

"Maybe you just need a better teacher," he says, giving me a smile that somehow manages to be highly amused, but not unkind. "Asha might be one of our best fighters, but as a teacher? Honestly?" He leans in a little, conspiratorially, but doesn't bother to lower his voice in the slightest. "She sucks donkey balls."

"Oi! I'm standing right *here*, you foppish French fuckwit!"

French? He doesn't *sound* French. He sounds as English as I am.

"I *know*," Renly says, shrugging as he turns the full force of his smile on her. "I'm hardly going to say something like that behind your back now, am I? Where would be the fun in that?"

Somehow, against all the odds, I manage to neither laugh nor to gasp in horror.

I can't believe he said that.

I really can't believe he said that.

Especially not when Asha's standing there with a sword in her hand. A practice sword, granted, but even so.

It's either the bravest thing I've ever seen, or the stupidest thing I've ever seen.

I'm still trying to decide which - maybe both? - when Renly abruptly turns around and yells at the top of his lungs, making me almost jump out of my skin.

"Loras!" he shouts. "Come over here a minute. I need you."

A moment later, a figure emerges from the group of people across the way. The ones who *aren't* standing around gawping at the show, but are actually focusing on their own training.

I give him a quick glance as he jogs over, and then a second one. And a third for good measure. Wow. He *really* looks the part. Like, tall and regal, with curly brown hair and pale blue eyes. (Not as blue as Daenerys' eyes, of course, but then whose are?) It's like a knight from one of my books has stepped out of the pages and is jogging across a field in Nottinghamshire.

Gracefully.

Who even jogs gracefully?

(Apart from Daenerys.)

He smiles at us as he approaches, and I find myself smiling back.

And blushing, naturally.

"What do you need?" he asks affably, and even his *voice* is like something I'd expect from a fairy tale hero; a mellow, resonant tenor.

In my head, I'm already casting him as a gallant knight, perhaps rescuing a fair damsel, or duelling for a lady's favour.

(And I try not to think that maybe that lady could be tall and have red hair.)

"Sansa Stark, meet Loras Tyrell. Loras, this is Sansa. Asha brought her along today for the first time. Dragged her kicking and screaming, unless I miss my guess." He gives me a knowing wink. I blush and, conscious of Asha's baleful glare, very carefully say nothing at all.

"It's nice to meet you, Sansa," Loras says to me.

"And you too," I practically whisper.

He really has the most wonderful smile.

(Even though it doesn't make me feel quite as warm inside as...)

"Anyway," Renly says, drawing Loras' attention away from me. "Asha's been trying to teach her how to swing a sword, which is going about as well as you might imagine, so I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to help out."

"Of course," he says, like it's not even a problem, like there aren't a million and one other, better things he could be doing with his time than showing one klutzy novice how to do something she never even wanted to do in the first place. "Shall we start now, Sansa?"

I'm... torn.

What I want to do more than anything is say thank you, but no thank you. Swordplay isn't for me, and I'll just be going now.

But on the other hand, it would be rude to say no after Loras so courteously went along with Renly just volunteering his services out of the blue.

And... And I kind of maybe wouldn't mind spending some time with him.

On the gripping hand, there's Asha. She did bring me here, and she was *trying* to teach me. She didn't even shout and swear at me all that much, really. Whatever Renly says about her teaching ability, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear

And I'm definitely more sow's ear than silken cloth.

Hesitantly, I turn to Asha.

"What do you think? Is that okay with you?"

She stares at me for a long, excruciating moment, and then waves a hand - *not* the one holding the sword - in clear dismissal.

"Go. See if Loras has better luck getting you to remember which end of the sword to hold than I did. It's about time I did some practice of my own, anyway."

She hands the practice sword to Loras.

Yes!

I mean, this is perfectly acceptable to me.

"Excellent!" Renly claps his hands together and nudges Asha. "Come on, Viking, let's spar." He smirks at her, making a beckoning gesture. "You know you want to try and hit me."

"More than you know, Frenchy," Asha growls. "And I won't just be trying." But there's a reluctant smile hovering at the corners of her mouth as she strides determinedly after him.

I suppose that was just friendly banter? Rather than actual hostility? It's hard to tell with Asha, sometimes.

I might have guessed she would have friends who are just as... forthright and physically expressive as she is.

"*Someone's* going to be all over bruises tonight," Loras sighs, frowning after the pair of them.

I blink. Maybe I was wrong.

"I thought it was just friendly sparring? I thought everyone was supposed to pull their blows?"

"It is, and they are. But Asha tends to play rough and Renly won't lose face by telling her to step it back a notch. If anything, he'll probably taunt her into being *more* aggressive." He shakes his head. "That mouth of his is going to get him in serious trouble one of these days," he says, then smirks a little.

"I... see."

It's so noble, the way he's worrying about his friend.

Now I'm even more glad that Asha just had me swing at a training dummy, rather than actually facing off against her. I most definitely do not like to play rough.

"Alright, enough about them." Loras turns to me with a kind smile. "Shall we get started?"

Right. Focus, Sansa. Try not to mess everything up this time.

I smile back at Loras, hoping against hope that the heat in my cheeks is from the exertion of training, rather than a blush of embarrassment.

Or any other kind of blush.

"Um, okay. Thanks for doing this."

"It's no trouble," he says, and he actually sounds like he means that, rather than just saying it to be polite. (He's probably just being polite.) "I'm one of the official weapons trainers for the Living History group anyway. So, I should be the one apologising to you for being remiss in my duties."

"Oh no, there's no need for that," I say quickly. "We got here early, and Asha wanted to get started, so we just kind of got on with it." I make myself stop, take a breath, and continue more slowly. "Anyway, you looked kind of busy."

"Well, I'm here now." And I'm thankful for that. "Alright, then. First of all, I have a couple of questions."

He looks at me like he's waiting for some kind of response. I look back at him, taking the opportunity to enjoy the view.

Oh my god. I can't believe I just thought that. Am I staring? I hope I'm not staring. He must think I'm such a fool.

"Okay," I answer, trying not to shift uncomfortably.

"Have you done anything like this before? Fencing, martial arts, or any other kind of combat training?"

I shake my head.

"No, nothing." I think about mentioning yesterday's LARP session, but I don't think hurling imaginary fireballs is going to be at all relevant here. Anyway, what if his feeling about LARP are the same as Asha's? "Sorry."

"No need to apologise," he says gently. "Not everyone has. It just helps me to know what kind of experience you have, so I can better tailor my instruction to your level of ability."

"In that case, my level of ability is non-existent."

"What about other physical activities? Yoga, perhaps, or gymnastics, or dancing? Even aerobics. Anything involving movement and balance, really."

"I, um, I used to dance," I say, shyly. "Country dancing, ballroom dancing and ballet. Also some tap dancing, but I didn't do that for very long."

I bet he's a wonderful dancer. He's so poised and elegant.

"Good." He nods, looking pleased. "That will help."

"It will?"

"Of course. Believe it or not, how to stand and how to move are two of the most fundamental lessons of swordplay, and dancing teaches you both of those things. There are things that don't translate, of course, but we can worry about that later. For now, let's just start with the basics. Alright?"

"Um, alright."

"Good." His voice becomes brisk and business-like. "I'd like you to stand facing me with your feet shoulder's width apart..."

* * *

Much to my very great surprise, I don't totally hate the lesson. I haven't magically come to *enjoy* swinging a sword around or anything, but there's a certain sense of achievement in knowing that, if I wanted to, I wouldn't necessarily totally suck at it.

(I probably would, of course, but at least at the moment I feel like I have a chance of not failing completely.)

It feels a little disloyal to say it, even just in the privacy of my own head, but Loras really is a *much* better teacher than Asha. He's patient, and he explains things, and he doesn't look at me like he's wondering how someone so incompetent and idiotic even manages to walk without falling over her own feet. There are a couple of occasions when he has to physically adjust my stance, or my grip on the sword and, unlike Asha, he actually asks first. Also unlike Asha, his touch is light and gentle.

Naturally, I blush like a tomato on every single such occasion.

And I think I might... like it?

It's maybe a little bit like... like dancing.

The time passes more quickly than I would have expected, and I'm horrified to realise that I've completely monopolised Loras' attention for the rest of the training session. I try to apologise, but he waves my babbling away with another one of his easy smiles.

"I enjoy teaching," he says. "And, between you and me, it makes a refreshing change to have a student who actually listens to what I say." I duck my head, blushing. He's probably just saying that, but it's nice to hear nonetheless. "If you think you're going continue with the training, there are some exercises I'd suggest that will probably make things a little easier for you."

"Well..."

If he'd asked that earlier, my answer would have been a resounding no. (Well, it would have been in my head. Out loud, I would have undoubtedly stammered assent.) But now, I find myself oddly indecisive.

"I think I'll try one more session and decide then," I find myself saying.

"That's sensible," he says, nodding. "Of course, if you do decide that the war part of re-enactment isn't for you, there's always the crafting and historical realism side of things. And we can always use a few non-combatants to add some verisimilitude to our formal gatherings."

I never even thought about that.

I mean, I did before, when I was trying to convince myself that letting Asha drag me out here wasn't really all that horrible an idea. But today, the thought never even crossed my mind.

"That sounds great," I say enthusiastically. "I still don't think that swordfighting - or any kind of fighting - is really my thing, but I really love the idea of making things using authentic methods, and recreating specific periods and events from history." It belatedly occurs to me that I've just disparaged a part of the hobby that Loras obviously enjoys. I wince inwardly. And blush outwardly. "Um, no offence. About the swordfighting thing."

"None taken," he says genially. He shrugs. "It isn't for everyone. Anyway, wouldn't life be boring if we all liked the same things?"

"I guess so."

Wise as well as handsome. I stand by my first statement: *wow*.

I think... I think if I spend much more time around Loras, I might start to develop a little crush on him.

Maybe I already have.

Not that he'd ever in a million years feel the same way about me, of course. But that's okay. I'm happy just to enjoy this feeling.

Besides, it's perfectly normal to have a crush on someone like Loras.

(Unlike on...)

"How'd it go, then?" Asha's voice breaks in. "Did you manage to make a fighter out of her?"

Loras doesn't *actually* roll his eyes, but in the brief moment before he turns towards Asha, his face bears the most long-suffering expression I've ever seen. And then it's gone as if it never even existed, replaced by the friendly smile that seems to be his default.

"We covered the basics, and Sansa definitely shows potential." He smiles at me. "She's going to come back next week and see if she likes it any better."

"Oh." Asha actually looks startled, but she recovers quickly. "Well, good. We'll soon have you swinging a sword like you were born with one, Stark!"

Oh. Great.

I smile and make a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, Renly chooses that moment to limp up to our little group, providing a convenient distraction.

"Let me guess," Loras says dryly, looking him up and down. "Asha powered right through your guard again and smacked you hard in the side."

"Good guess," Renly says, dropping his hand from his side.

"It's not my fault if his guard was pathetic," Asha huffs.

"No, but it is your fault if you don't pull your blow enough," Loras says, and he actually looks serious. "If you're not careful, you're going to end up causing someone a serious injury. And what kind of example are you setting for the new people?"

"It wasn't *that* hard," she objects. "And he did tell me to, what was it? To 'give it some *oomph*'."

Loras shoots a hard look at Renly, who shrugs sheepishly and then winces.

"What can I say? She's just so much fun to wind up. It's not *my* fault she has an ogre or something in her family tree." He looks over at Asha. "You know, you are *freakishly* strong for a girl."

She salutes him, grinning.

"Thanks," she says.

"That wasn't a... Oh, never mind. I've had enough. I need a drink." He draws in a deep breath, winces again, and shouts loudly enough that I almost expect to see a microphone. "To the pub!"

That draws a ragged cheer from the others, who are mostly standing around in small groups, chatting.

Renly turns back to us, smiling.

"Care to join us, Sansa?"

"Oh, um, I probably shouldn't. I have an essay I need to work on."

"Come on, Stark," says Asha. "You can come along for one, can't you?"

I know I should demur, but...

"Alright. I'll come out for one, then."

And, really, I'm not quite as reluctant as I sound. Or as I probably should be, really.

Oh well.

What Mum doesn't know won't earn me another lecture.

To the pub!


	9. Chapter 9

Loras is soooo dreamy.

I'm watching him covertly as he talks to one of the other new society members, explaining some technical thing or other to do with swinging a sword around. I don't know. I don't really care, to be honest. I think if he sat and read the phone book, I'd find that just as compelling.

Somehow I'm still sitting in the pub, that one drink seeming to have turned into three. Or is it four? I'm not entirely sure. I know I should probably think about leaving soon, but this is... nice. The re-enactors are a boisterous bunch, but they seem friendly enough. I haven't really spoken to them much beyond introductions, but that's okay. I'm content to just sit here and take in the scene.

To watch Loras.

The intense look on his face makes him seem even more handsome, and he illustrates his points with fluid, expressive movements of his hands.

I guess my story needs a love interest, and there are definitely worse muses than him.

(Something about that doesn't seem to fit, somehow; a little, nagging feeling like there's something out of place.)

(Never mind. I'm sure I can work it out.)

I haven't quite kept my resolution to stick to soft drinks, so I'm feeling a tiny little fuzzy around the edges. Not drunk, nowhere near drunk, just... pleasantly relaxed. Really, it's more psychological than physiological at this point.

(I don't tend to drink alcohol all that much, and I never, ever let myself get drunk around other people. It's too... It's not...)

(I just don't do that.)

My tolerance may be pretty crap - especially compared to Rob's - but even I don't get rat-arsed after one cider, two cokes and a lime soda.

Oh. I guess it is four drinks, then. And I haven't actually bought a single one of them, which means I should definitely get the next round. I don't want these people to think I'm some kind of freeloader.

I take a sip of my cider, relishing its crisp, refreshing bite. Not half bad actually, although it's not as good as one of Winterfell's brews. There are only dregs left in the glass now, though. Maybe this is a good time to get another round in. I quickly glance around the table. Not everyone's in need of a new drink, but enough people are that I won't look like a cheapskate.

Perfect.

Now all I have to do is make myself heard over the noise.

"Um, does anyone want a drink?"

No response.

I clear my throat and try again. Still no response. Maybe if I stand up and wave my purse in the air?

Suddenly, Renly's voice booms out, sudden and loud enough to make me jump.

"Quiet, you lot. The lady's trying to say something."

And suddenly, everyone's looking at me. I freeze like a deer in headlights.

"Go on, Sansa." Renly lowers his voice to a normal speaking volume, and his words snap my out of my paralysis.

"Um, right. Ah, I'm going to go up to the bar, and I was just wondering: does anyone want a drink?"

Renly is the first to answer. "That's very kind of you, thanks," he says, smiling. "I'll have another Newcastle Brown."

A handful of the others pipe up with their own requests. I can't help worrying a little about how much it's going to cost, but I ignore that nagging voice at the back of my mind. It's not going to be *that* much, and I have to stand my round. It's only fair. Even Mum would approve of that. Well, not that she'd approve of me being here in the first place, especially when I have studying to do, but once we got past that little wrinkle I'm sure she'd agree with me.

The importance of social conventions and obligations is, like, one of her *things*.

I'm just thankful that working in the coffee shop has improved my memory. A few months ago, there's no way I'd have remembered what everyone wants. Now, I don't even have to ask them to repeat it.

"I'll have an Old Peculiar if they've got it, or a Hobgoblin if they haven't," Asha says. "And I'll come with you to help carry them all."

She gets up before I can say that's not necessary.

"Um, thanks."

"Don't forget to ask for student discount," she says, well, pretty much orders, when we're standing in line at the bar.

"Okay."

Like I'd forget that. I already have my NUS card clutched in my hand, ready and waiting. Student discount is a lifesaver as far as my finances are concerned.

It looks like we might be waiting a little while to order. This place is surprisingly busy for a Sunday afternoon. From the looks of it, the customers are strange mix of students and craggy old men of the type you often see in certain types of old-fashioned bars. 'Old man pubs,' Rob always calls them. The kind that don't sell coffee or alcopops, or anything other than wine, spirits, and a wide selection of strong, dark beers. The kind where the staff look at you crosswise if you try asking for a white wine spritzer. Or if you're female.

There are a fair few of those kinds of pubs around Winterfell.

But this place actually has an espresso machine. (Albeit not a very good one, and it's been shoved into a corner without any real consideration of ease of use. But still.) And those brightly coloured bottles in one of the fridges definitely don't contain beer or spirits. I guess the owner decided to cash in on all that lovely student money. But it looks like some of his old clientele decided to stick around. I bet they'll be here long after we all graduate, too.

I wonder what they think about all the changes they've seen. About the way that every year brings new faces, and sees old ones vanish out into the world.

Hmm. Maybe there's a story in that, or a vignette at least. A vampire or some other immortal visiting their favourite drinking hole over the decades and centuries of their long existence. Seeing it change around them while they stay the same.

I think I could do something with that.

"Sansa."

It takes me a moment to respond, due to the twin strangenesses of Asha speaking softly, and of her using my first name, rather than just calling me 'Stark.' (Twice in one day. I wonder if I should be worried.)

"Yes?"

The expression on her face is... odd. Awkward, maybe? Uncomfortable? I'm not sure what it means. This is completely outside the normal context of our interactions to date.

"About Loras."

I blink. What? Did she notice me watching him? Could she...? Surely not. Is she going to warn me off him? (Like that's even necessary. Like he'd even look twice at someone like me.) Could she be interested in him for herself?

No, I can't believe that. Everything about their interactions... No. I'd more easily believe her to be interested in *Renly*, and I really don't think that's at all likely. Friends, definitely, but nothing more than that.

"What about him?" I ask, cautiously, because it seems that unless I say *something*, she's not going to continue.

"You fancy him, don't you?" she asks, with all the bluntness I've come to expect from her.

"What?" The word comes out as a squeak. "Why would you...? I mean, I've only just met him. How could...? What?"

Oh god. Was I really being that obvious? Did everyone notice?

Did *Loras* notice?

"That's a yes, then." There's a brief glimmer of humour in her eyes, but then that fades into seriousness. "Just thought you should know, he's already in a relationship."

"Oh," I say. Somehow, that doesn't surprise me in the slightest. I mean, someone that kind, that handsome? I'd have been more surprised if he was actually still single. I wonder idly who the lucky girl is.

"And even if he wasn't, I'm afraid you're not his type."

Much to my surprise, I feel the sting of almost-tears at the corners of my eyes. She's right, of course. I know that, knew that already. Why would someone like Loras ever look twice at awkward, plain, clumsy, boring Sansa?

("Why are you crying, Mouse? You should be happy. You should be *grateful*. No one would even look at you twice if it wasn't for me. No one else wants you. No one else even cares. If you didn't have me, you'd be all alone. I'm doing you a favour.")

But it still hurts a little to hear someone say it.

I wish she'd let me keep pretending.

"I know," I say, and despite my best efforts, my voice cracks a little, making me sound lost and forlorn. But I'm really not. I'm fine.

Just fine.

I think I'm going to leave after this round. I do have work to do, after all.

"I didn't mean- Oh, hellfire and damnation! This is what happens when I try to be delicate." She sighs heavily. "Look, Stark, Loras is gay."

I stare at her for a moment, nonplussed.

He's gay?

"Oh," I say, at a loss for words.

Loras is gay. Huh.

(For the briefest of moments, 'what a waste' flashes through my mind, the words sounding a lot like my mother's voice. And then I push the sentiment away, instantly ashamed of myself for even thinking it. Anyway, I don't actually think that.)

Asha smirks at me.

"If you could only see the look on your face right now," she chuckles, back to her usual ebullience. "I'm guessing you didn't have a clue."

I shake my head.

"No, I would never have guessed."

The thought just never even occurred to me.

Not that it really makes a difference to my crush. If anything, it actually makes things simpler. There's a world of difference between 'not in a million years, but still non-zero because you can never know for certain so that's a maybe' and 'never'. Maybe gives you hope, no matter how much you try to convince yourself there isn't any to be had. Never... doesn't. Now I can just enjoy the feelings of looking, longing and just being near him without any need to worry about it possibly (albeit not very probably) actually going somewhere.

"Your gaydar is for shit, isn't it? I bet you didn't ping Renly either."

"Renly too?"

"Yup. He and Loras are together."

She's right. My gaydar really is for... really is rubbish. Recent revelations have only served to confirm it. Heat flares in my cheeks as I suddenly recall that Asha and Daenerys had a *thing* once upon a time, and I hope fervently that Asha doesn't realise exactly why I'm blushing. Not that she could really, without spontaneously developing mind reading powers. But I can't help worrying.

A thought occurs to me, making me frown.

"Does everybody..? I mean, are they going to mind you telling me?"

"It's not a secret. Don't worry, I haven't outed anyone against their will." A bitter grimace briefly twists her features, there and gone again so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it. "Given the way you were mooning over Loras, I thought it was better you find out sooner, rather than later."

"I wasn't," I mutter.

Okay, I was totally mooning over him. I just didn't realise I was being so obvious about it.

Asha chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder companionably. I hold back a yelp as she manages to catch me on a sore spot.

"Your face is like a beetroot right now. Did I break your brain a little?"

"No, but I think you might have broken my arm."

Wow. Some kind of devil seems to have gotten into my tongue today. I need to be more careful about watching what I say. Fortunately, Asha doesn't seem offended.

"Sorry," she says, cheerfully. Too cheerfully, if you ask me. "You'll toughen up with more training, don't worry. Anyway, we're never going to get served at this rate. Let me see if I can get someone's attention."

I wince as her dulcet tones ring out loud and clear and far too near my ear, musing that attracting attention is something she's good at.

And I think, really for the first time in a long time (since before...), that I might possibly envy that. I might actually wish I had that ability.

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

Well, who knows? If I can learn to be someone else, and if I can learn to wield a sword, maybe I can also learn that.

Maybe I even want to try.

* * *

"So, how was your weekend?" Shae asks, her eyes twinkling.

"Good! It was good, thanks. I really enjoyed it."

"The LARP or the re-enactment training?"

I think about that for a moment.

"Both, actually."

I'm surprised to realise that's actually true. I mean, I think - no, I'm pretty sure - I enjoyed the LARP session more, overall. But despite an extremely unpromising start, the re-enactment training ended up being a surprising amount of fun. Maybe I'm biased a little bit by the company.

Shae raises her eyebrows.

"Is that so? I look forward to hearing all about it." The bell pings, and we both look over towards the door. "But not right now. It appears that you have a customer."

Cliché as it sounds, Daenerys' smile seems to light up the whole shop, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling as they land on me. I'm helpless to do anything but smile back at her.

It's amazing how a friend's presence can suddenly lift your spirits so much. Not that I was feeling down or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. I was feeling pretty happy anyway, but now I'm feeling... happier.

I step up to the till as she approaches.

"Hello," I say. I know we're supposed to give the whole spiel to every customer, 'Welcome to Hot Coffee,' blah blah blah, even if we know them, but somehow I can't bring myself to do so.

I mean, we're *friends* now.

Aren't we?

(At least until she gets tired of me. Assuming she even meant it in the first place.)

"Good evening," she says.

"Hiya," chirps Doreah, making me start a little. Until she spoke, I hadn't even realised she was there. She loops her arm through Daenerys'. "I'd forgotten that Dany said you worked here."

"Um, yeah. Hi." I look from one of them to the other. "What would you like?"

Daenerys starts to speak, but Dor gets there first.

"Order me a cinnamon latte, would you honey? I'll go stake us out a table. Thanks!" She kisses Daenerys quickly - I'll never be able to think of her as Dany, no matter how many times I hear it - and disentangles herself. "Nice, seeing you, Sans!" she calls back.

"Um, likewise," I reply, managing to hold back a frown.

Sans? That sounds like... like some kind of cleaning product. All new Sans! Now with added sparkle.

Gah.

No, I don't think so.

Daenerys watches Dor ensconce herself in a corner, the tiniest of frowns crinkling her brow. Her expression smooths again as she turns back to me, her smile reappearing like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. I bask in its warmth once again.

"Alright, let's try that again," she says. "One medium cinnamon latte, please, made with skimmed milk. No other special requests. And I'll have... Let me see." She scans the board. I ring up the cinnamon latte while she considers her options. "Orange mocha?" she muses, sounding intrigues. "Gingerbread latte? Those are new, aren't they?"

"Two of our Halloween specials," I confirm. "We just got the orange syrup in, plus some other seasonal stuff." I shrug. "Mr Baelish says we need to step up our game a little so we don't lose customers to the 'novelty factor' of other shops' seasonal specials. Or something."

"I see. Well, I've never had an orange mocha before, so let's start with a large one of those, plus an extra espresso shot. Poured Italian style, of course." I don't ring the drink up yet. Experience has taught me that it's easier to wait until she's finished. "Add half a shot of gingerbread syrup and half a shot of cinnamon, if that's possible."

"I guess so," I say, dubiously. The combination actually sounds pretty sickly to me, but if that's what she wants...

"I think I'll go the whole hog and have whipped cream on top, with one of your Picasso-type designs in toffee syrup, please. And a light dusting of chocolate sprinkles. Oh, and do you have those pumpkin sprinkles they had here last Halloween?"

I check quickly.

"Yes, we do."

"Excellent! I'd like liberal dusting of those, please. And I think that's everything."

Wow. All I can say is, I'm so glad *I* don't have to drink that. I repeat the order back to her, just to make sure, and ring it up. I expect her to go over to Dor, but instead she takes up her usual spot to the side of the counter.

"I can bring them over to your table when they're ready, if you want to go and down," I offer.

"That's alright," she says, smiling. "I've been sitting down for most of the day. I feel the need to stretch my legs a little. Besides, this means I can chat with you a bit, if that's okay."

"That's fine," I say.

Better than fine: it's good. Great, even! Not that I'm going to say that out loud. I don't want to sound too desperate, after all.

"So, how-" I start to ask, at the same time as she says:

"I hope-"

We both break off. Daenerys chuckles softly, and after a beat or two I join in.

("Don't you *ever* interrupt me again. No one wants to hear what you have to say.")

"You go on," she says, smiling kindly.

"No, after you," I say quickly.

"I was just going to say: I hope we didn't make too much of a mess of your place on Saturday night."

"Oh no, it was fine. It didn't take me too long to clear up. Although, I think next time I'm going to try make a start on it the night before, rather than leaving it all until the next morning."

"Next time? So we didn't put you off completely, then?"

"No, not at all," I hasten to reassure her. "I had a great time, both at the LARP and afterwards. I'd love to do it again. I'm already looking forward to next time."

Too much? Almost certainly too much. Way to play it cool, Sansa. But Daenerys is smiling like she doesn't think I'm a babbling, desperate fool.

"Good.

Daenerys nods, sounding pleased. "That reminds me. It hasn't been finalised yet, but you remember the costume and weapon making workshop we talked about?" I nod. "We're thinking of having it on Saturday afternoon, before the game. We're trying to book a room in the Portland building. What do you think? Will you be able to come along?"

"Um. I'm doing a morning shift here, but I should be free from about one o'clock. Will that be okay?"

"Perfect, actually. We're aiming to start at two. I'm going to send the notice out as soon as we get confirmation on the room booking, which will hopefully be sometime today. Tomorrow at the latest."

"Great. I'll look out for it."

That sounds like fun, but I wonder what I'm going to do about materials. Maybe I can hit the charity shops this week and get hold of some garments to cannibalise.

"So, how was the rest of your weekend?" I ask.

She sighs.

"It was alright. Busy, I guess. I had some work to do, and then there were some details to take care of for the Radford Lights project. Thanks for contacting the Student Housing Office, by the way. We should get a few more signatures from there."

"That's okay," I say, blushing a little at her pleased expression. "I didn't do that much."

Actually, at the time it felt like one of the hardest things I've ever done. I must have rewritten that e-mail several times over before finally getting the courage up to the point where I could actually send it. But I had to do something. I'd said I would help, and that had been almost a week ago.

I'm just glad I didn't have to call them. Or, even worse, ask them in person.

"Nonsense," she says, firmly. "It was a good idea."

I blush again and look down, concentrating on putting the finishing touches to the drinks. Well, mainly Daenerys', carefully drawing an intricate design on the top with toffee syrup. Since she specifically requested it, I make it a little more complicated than usual, eyeing it critically when I'm done.

I think it works.

"So, how was your Sunday?" she asks, and I freeze briefly, immediately regretting opening up this line of questioning.

What do I say? How is she going to respond if I tell her that I let Asha take me to training?

Asha who she had a *Thing* with. That ended badly.

(And I am totally not thinking about the two of them together. Or remembering Dor kissing Daenerys with gleeful abandon. Or anything like that. Anything at all.)

"Here are your drinks," I say brightly, temporising. "One medium cinnamon latte made with skimmed milk and one..." I eye the concoction dubiously. "One Witch's Brew."

She laughs; a mellow, melodious sound that lifts my heart to hear it.

"Witch's Brew? I like it. You should add that to your seasonal menu."

"Um, maybe."

Somehow, I don't think we're going to get many requests for it.

"Anyway, I suppose I'd better take these over before they get cold," she says. "But maybe we can talk later?"

"I'd like that."

And maybe when 'later' comes, I'll have decided what I'm going to say.

* * *

"So you're actually going back next week?" Shae asks, a note of disbelief in her voice.

I shrug.

"I guess so, yeah."

She looks at me consideringly for a moment. (I wonder what she sees.) I fight the urge to look away, or to fiddle with something.

"Could this have anything to do with this teacher of yours? What was his name? Loras?"

"What? No, of course not." My cheeks are so hot that it almost feels like they're going to burst into flames. "I mean, he's a good teacher, that's all." I hunt around for something, anything to say to disabuse her of this notion. "Anyway, he's in a relationship."

In hindsight, that probably wasn't it.

"Oh he is, is he?" she murmurs, looking far too amused for my good. "And how did you find that out?"

"Um, Asha told me."

"Asha told you what?" Ygritte asks interestedly as she ties on her apron.

"Nothing," I say quickly, getting a sudden flash of how this is going to go and being determined to do my level best to head it off at the pass.

Shae frowns.

"Where have you *been*?" she asks. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"I was busy." Ygritte shrugs, unconcerned. "Did I miss anything exciting?"

"Us being rushed off our feet," says Shae, pointedly.

Ygritte shrugs again.

"Well, I'm here now." She grins at the two of us. Shae rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything else about Ygritte's lateness. She probably figures she'd just be wasting her breath. And, well, she'd probably be right. I'm just starting to hope that the threat has passed, when she continues. "So, what are we talking about?"

"Sansa was telling me about her weekend," Shae answers.

I curse silently.

"Yeah?" Ygritte regards me interestedly. "Did you do anything good?" She grins wickedly at me. "Like that Reza guy?" While I'm spluttering incoherently, she turns to Shae and says, mock-conspiratorially. "He finally plucked up the courage to confess his feelings to her. Over coffee." To me, she adds: "You never did tell me how that went."

Shae's eyebrows climb towards her hair.

"Sansa?" she says. "Is there something you'd like to share?"

"No! No, I- It wasn't like that. I mean, he did buy me coffee, and we did talk, but we're just friends. That's all. Nothing more than that."

"Oh. Pity." Ygritte looks disappointed for a second, but then her expression brightens. "Does that mean he's up for grabs, then?"

"Um, I guess," I say slowly, making a mental note to give Reza a heads-up. I mean, he might well be interested, and that's fine, but just in case he isn't... Well, I know I'd like to have some warning if someone as determined as Ygritte wanted to pounce on me.

A guy, I mean.

I mean...

Oh, never mind.

"So, what did you get up to at the weekend?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"Well, on Saturday I went to a live-action roleplaying game. I-"

"Sounds kinky!" she says, beaming. "I approve."

"No! No, it's not!" I burst out, horrified. "It's... It's..."

My mind goes blank, and I can't find the words.

Ygritte starts giggling helplessly and Shae glowers at her.

"Ygritte, don't torment the poor girl."

"Sorry," she gasps out, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I just couldn't resist." Sobering a little, she continues. "I know what you mean, don't worry. But, oh my god, your *face*."

And she's off again.

I try to smile along with her, but my heart just isn't in it. I know she doesn't mean any harm, that her humour isn't malicious, but I really don't like being laughed at.

"How were your weekends?" I ask, looking from one of them to the other, hoping to distract Ygritte from her mirth. And Shae from asking any more questions about Loras. "Did you get up to anything interesting?"

Shae sighs.

"I was mostly working, unfortunately."

"Well, I had a *great* weekend," Ygritte says, apparently finally over her fit of laughter at my expense. "I went to a party on Friday night, and didn't get back home until Sunday. Best. Party. *Ever.*"

As she tells us all about it, I can't help envying her, just a little. Life seems so simple for her, so uncomplicated. She does what she wants, when she wants; no second-guessing, no self-doubt.

It must be nice.

Oh, who am I kidding? That could never be me.

But that's fine, because I kind of get the feeling that things are beginning to change for me. And it all started when Daenerys Targaryen walked into my life.

I automatically glance over in her direction. She and Doreah seem to be deeply engaged in conversation, leaning over the table so that their faces are no more than inches apart. (Maybe they're going to kiss again.) Except... Their expressions aren't exactly what I would call happy. And as for their body language... Even as I watch, Doreah shoves her hair back with a short, angry motion, muttering something that makes Daenerys level such a glare at her that I'm almost surprised she doesn't burst into flames right where she sits.

They're fighting.

The realisation hits me like a slap, making my stomach twist with a confusing welter of emotions that I can't even begin to name.

(Maybe they're breaking up.)

I hope it's nothing serious.

(Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.)

I hope...

(Maybe...)

I hope everything's okay.

I really hope everything's okay.


End file.
